


Nervous Breakdown, Nine Innings - Season Two

by ArtemisClydeFrogge



Series: Nervous Breakdown, Nine Innings [3]
Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!, big windup, oofuri
Genre: Anxiety, Bisexual, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Male Character, Confession, Crying, Drabble, Episodes, F/M, Feelings, Flash Fiction, Freeform, Friends to Lovers, HamaIzu, HanaTaji, Het, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Oofuri - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Sexual Content, ShigaMomoe, Slash, Slow Build, SuyaSaka, Underage - Freeform, Unrequited Love, Viginette, abemiha, eventually requited, female heterosexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2089563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisClydeFrogge/pseuds/ArtemisClydeFrogge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How love grows from jealousy and admiration, possessiveness and trust. Drabbles and short stories closely following the actual episodes.</p><p>Nervous Breakdown, Nine Innings - Season Two</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter took me nearly four weeks to get through, for many reasons, so please expect continued slow updates. 
> 
> It's been a long time running, so please forgive me if I re-hash themes I've covered in the past.
> 
> This chapter cover episodes 1-3.

**01**

* * *

 

**Slip and Foul**

Laying his head down on the cool wood of his desk, Izumi is vaguely furious. The nerve of Hamada driving a conversation to something as inappropriate and unwelcome as Coach's personal life and... _assets._ He takes a deep breath and brings his arms up to cushion his forehead; there was a part of him that wasn't in particular surprised, and that, too, was frustrating. Hamada was still a growing young man, was still malleable, perhaps. At least-

Okay, yes, Coach had ridiculous proportions. It didn't matter where  _his_ interests lay, Izumi was still going to notice. And so, apparently, would Hamada.

There was nothing for it. It wasn't as though he had a right to be jealous; they had barely made it past cordial greetings in the morning and at practice. Had barely begun to speak to each other at school, in class together, at lunch- and only when there were other people around.

Izumi couldn't help it. He felt so  _skittish_ and  _helpless_ . And when he felt out of sorts he got mad, and when he got mad he wanted to cry or throw things or break something. Though, even when he and Hamada had been... doing what they had been doing... he had been skittish and angry, so what was the difference? It would have been better to have gone to another school, really. Would have been better to never see Hamada again. Time had done nothing to make the awful pressure and hurt and  _want_ fade away. Kosuke took a deep breath; no matter what he was doing, or feeling, stupid Hamada was always dominating his thoughts.

And it was totally unclear if Hamada was even _sparing_ him a thought. The eye contact they had shared at the end of the first official game, in all its intensity, seemed like it had happened years ago, seemed untouchable now. Izumi was beginning to feel afraid- well and truly _afraid_ \- as if he had... _imagined_ it all.  
  


* * *

**02  
**

* * *

**Little Spark**

Hanai's mother is a pretty woman; her features are soft, and round, a little worn-looking, but still pretty. An older lady kind of pretty. A 'mom' kind of pretty. Her eyes, especially, are gentle and bright, and Tajima knows immediately that Hanai got his own pretty eyes from her.

Gentle and bright.

Tajima swallows hard, gives Hanai a sidelong glance, and stares with determination into the match.  
  


* * *

**  
Poorly Timed**

Up until Hanai's outburst, Suyama had been enjoying Sakaeguchi's warm shoulder against his own; since the first official game, Sakaeguchi had been strangely, openly, affectionate. It was driving Suyama completely insane, but it was also, _so so_ nice. Yuuto had spent a handful of weekends with him, had spent the entirety of his birthday with him, and had been generally very open and warm.

But... Yuuto was _always_ open and warm. That was _normal_ for him.

Shoji knew he had to stop reading into the behaviour. Had to remember that they were _best friends,_ had been for quite a while, now. It had happened so easily, so organically, and the _feelings_ that had followed had _also_ come easily and organically. He _knew_ he had to box them away and stay neutral- be the friend that Yuuto deserved. But it was difficult- _beyond_ difficult.

His hopes had risen without his permission when Sakaeguchi had started spending even more time with him. Yuuto had suddenly begun calling more often, had made so much time for him, and had been so sweet. God, if only he wasn't so sweet. Shoji had never met anyone so in tune and empathetic to other people and their needs. He, himself, had been on the receiving end of Yuuto's gentle empathy. He was shocked that his best friend hadn't figured him out all the way- hadn't accused him of being...

_Attached_ like he was.

It was too much. The push-pull of enjoying the extra attention and company and casual brushes versus the pain of not being able to go further, to say what he knew he should, or to risk Yuuto finding him out, was breaking him apart on the inside. It was  _violent_ in there. And Yuuto didn't deserve that.

A small part of him was glad for their captain's distraction.

A small part of him hated it.

And both parts ate him up.  
  
 ****

* * *

**  
Already Left**

Momoe enjoyed the idle, baseball-related chat the two mothers threw at her, but as soon as it took a turn for Shiga, she was glad for the distraction of a cool drink.  
  


* * *

**  
Companionable**

They're quiet, standing together, watching. Sometimes, things are like this. Easy, quiet- not at all stressful. Sometimes, they find themselves on the same wavelength, inexplicably but comfortably. It reminds Mihashi of the training camp, when he woke in the night to see Abe nearby, sleeping with his body curved toward the pitcher, as though he'd been watching over him before passing out. It reminds Abe of the rare, happy smiles that Mihashi sometimes affects; the ones that beam bright and cheery, because he feels appreciated, because he feels liked and a part of everything.

It reminds Abe of the feelings that come sometimes, the warm ones, in his stomach.

He glances at Mihashi, whose honey-brown eyes are fixed, stolid and determinedly, to the game in front of them. The feeling flares and he wonders at it; wonders at the way the barest summer breeze moves Mihashi's hair, wonders at the length and lightness of Mihashi's eyelashes, wonders at the curve of his neck and shoulders, wonders at his hard-working hands, and their familiar callouses.

He wonders why they can't always be like this- in tune and comfortable and stress-free.

Mihashi seems finally to feel his gaze and glances back; their eyes meet and Abe's mouth goes, for a moment, dry. There is an open, trusting look there that Abe isn't sure he deserves, isn't sure he wants.

But then Mihashi gives a small, tentative smile, and Abe re-thinks _everything._

 

* * *

**  
Underweight**

Abe frets after him and Mihashi can't help but like the attention. It makes him feel... _wanted_.

There are other words for the feeling, but he can't bring himself to use them. Can't possibly believe they could surface in his mind to begin with. Abe has that effect on him; his presence is so commanding and his opinion means so much. Mihashi knows it must be hero-worship. He fears failing Abe, fears making his turn his back; the idea of losing Abe is devastating in every way, though he isn't sure _how_ he would go about _losing_ Abe.

Abe makes him _feel_ so many odd, incalculable things. Especially when he speaks softly, gently; especially when he looks his way to check up on him. Mihashi likes the attention _so much_. So much, so, that being underweight doesn't really bother him at all.  
  


* * *

**  
Temper, Temper**

Abe manages to scare Mihashi away- though he is nominally aware of how absurd this escape mechanism of Mihashi's is. The boy's demeanor can be so infuriating sometimes. Between his bouts of sweetness and lightness, he is jittery, worried, and  _ scared _ , and does  _ stupid  _ things because of that mentality. And the fear- that's what sets Abe off.

Because Mihashi seems to be afraid of  _ him, _ and that, for all the strangest reasons,  _ hurts _ . And, unfortunately, the only way Abe knows to deal with that hurt is to lash out, lose his temper, and scare Mihashi away.

Self-perpetuating the myth, making things worse, and leaving him stumped as to how to proceed.

A little part of him, though, thinks,  _ I care. I think that's why he sets me off so much. He drives me crazy, and even though I want this team to succeed, even though I want to go to the top with him, I can't help but worry. Because I... I really... _

_I really care about him._  
  


* * *

**  
Oh.**

The things that Oki says... they do and they don't help. Abe covers his mouth in astonishment at himself.  _ I've really been underestimating my... temperament? _

A long pause.

... __ Even my laugh?  
  


* * *

 

**Pep**

Abe's voice is a sudden thing, large and startling. Mihashi wants to run away- but can't. Embarrassment at his last freak-out keeps him rooted, but the tone in Abe's voice as he asks him questions... Oh, there is fear. And when Mihashi makes a mis-step, he gets a little punishment- the familiar push of Abe's knuckles against his skull.

But it isn't as rough as it has been, and Abe's voice doesn't go as loudly as it has, and he seems... patient. It is astounding and brilliant, and casts Abe in a light that Mihashi can't shake. He listens, respectful, but a part of him is somewhere else- in a place of wonderment, where he can only see Abe's grey eyes, where the shadows meet the light.

The moment passes when Abe asks him a particularly distressing question, and a long silence stretches between them. Abe's face is a mask of dis-quieting, dark humor, and though Mihashi knows the answer, he is afraid to speak.  _ He's going to yell at me, he's going to yell at me-- _

“Ba... Ba...”

Abe smiles a weird smile and shouts, “Yes! The batter! Great.”

And Mihashi's insides implode with happiness.  
  


* * *

**  
Sweat**

After the team run, the group scatters to the drinking fountain or the dug-out, or to whatever team-mate needs gossiping with, but Tajima heads to the rear of the dug-out and Hanai _sees_. The shorter boy has flung his jersey and undershirt to the ground, and is working on his pant buttons.

It doesn't take any time at all, but it's irreversible. Hanai's mind has taken a snapshot of what it sees; an image that will haunt him as soon as his head hits the pillow for weeks at a time. A small, sturdy frame, back taut, sweat running down tanned skin. Dark hair stuck to the nape of his neck...

The most unwelcome image- accompanied by a wave of heat below his belt- is now a part of Hanai's memory, un-eraesable. As he yells, his mind rushes. He has been in the showers with the guys before, yes, and he's looked, _yes_ , but that's all _normal._

Isn't it?

What edge of voyeurism makes his heart leap into his throat as he catches Tajima stripping beyond the fence, uncaring, wild, free?

Just what is this? And why?  
  


* * *

 

**Breathless**

Abe watches the air stutter in and out of Mihashi's small chest. His hands are balled to his chest, and his eyes are far-off. In the end, he might be too small for a one-hundred percent level of their work-outs. It's worrisome, especially with the next match approaching.

The way Mihashi lies is also worrisome; Abe assumes the pitcher doesn't want anyone to worry, and that's _exactly_ what sets off Abe's feelings of misgiving. He wants to set Mihashi down, somehow, re-set him, make him better.

The way he holds his breath and squirms, the shaking and the attempt to be well- there are parts of Abe that are scared. Overwhelmed, surprised, and... scared.

He brainstorms; there has to be a way to win _and_ take care of Mihashi; to _protect_ him.

Because the team- and Mihashi- needs him to.

* * *

 

**03**

* * *

 

**Funny Thing**

Sakaeguchi has been feeling more confident lately. After their win, after Suyama's help, he had begun to stand straighter and carry himself with more confidence. It came and went, at times, but it was always sort of... there.

He laughed more often, and girls had started to notice him more, which brought him absurd levels of pride, and equal levels of embarrassment. The embarrassment came from Suyama; no matter how he brought it up or phrased it, his best friend would flush and look away, hardly responding before accepting any change of topic.

Sakaeguchi didn't quite understand; he liked girls well enough, especially if they were cute, but it wasn't as though he was embarrassed by the idea of them. Perhaps Shoji was just a late bloomer. Yuuto had considered it at length and felt he could relate somewhat. He had only _really_ started thinking about girls a couple of summers ago, and only because his older cousin had come to visit for a couple of weeks.

Before then, he hadn't really thought about girls; for Yuuto, it had been school and baseball and his team-mates. Even now, girls were a peripheral thing. So for Shoji, maybe girls just weren't part of the equation _at all_ , yet. In a way, that was fine by Yuuto. He didn't want a girlfriend or anything, because that would interfere with baseball, and he didn't want Shoji to have a girlfriend because that would interfere with-

His train of thought stuttered and stalled and he almost dropped his glove.

_Me?_

* * *

 

**Sleeping**

Abe pretends to nap while Sakaeguchi speaks to Mihashi; he had come over immediately, curious as to what they might be saying. Curious to what Sakaeguchi might say to his pitcher. As he relaxed and listened, he gave in to the understanding that he _might_ be somewhat possessive over the blonde. But it was for the betterment of the team, so that was okay- wasn't it?

A little voice-  _the_ little voice- told him No. This is something else entirely.

And when Mihashi confesses that, despite his own inclination to stay on the mound no matter what, if Abe told him to come down, he  _would_ , the possessiveness spikes and wanes and hardens in Abe's gut, turning into something that is warm and thoughtful.

Sakaeguchi goes on to confess their need to keep Mihashi healthy and able to pitch because of Hanai and Oki not being ready, and Abe's agreements come out louder and more reassuring than he remembers himself ever being.

Mihashi's face is surprised, and Abe can read some measure of betrayal in them. He wants to say more, then, something  _ extra _ reassuring to put Mihashi at ease, but Hanai shouts at them, and there is no chance a resolution to the feeling of contrition in Abe's chest. 

* * *

 

**More**

Mihashi is never certain what to think or do or say; he  _wants_ to do whatever the right thing is, but it's never clear. Most especially, he just wants to gain Abe's approval. Nothing matters so much as pitching and earning a smile or a word of praise from the catcher. He is like a tsunami, hovering and peaked and ready to crash- tumbling over Mihashi and keeping the breath out of him, sometimes.

Sometimes, at night, Mihashi can hardly think straight, turning over thoughts of Abe and his presence, for all its ups and downs.

Sometimes, he dreams about Abe.

Sakaeguchi jogs off, and Mihashi has to look away from the darkness of Abe's eyes and the way his mouth sits at an impassive angle. There is a nervousness chewing at him, a kind of anxiety which has grown from some seed he cannot remember being sewn in his solar plexus. He gulps.

Abe had agreed, if he couldn't pitch, they were goners. The team _needed_ him. His face had burned, warm and surprised and happy, and it was like _Abe_ needed him. The feeling now seems silly, childish, and strange.

“I... was wrong... I won't...” he murmurs, hand sweating inside his glove. Abe is looking away, a peculiar and pronounced look on his face. He seems a little flushed. “I won't... say anything anymore.”

Abe's face snaps back toward him, with a look of frustration in its most extreme form, and suddenly his hands are on him, his knuckles against his temples. “You've got it all wrong! I want you to talk _more!_ ”

Mihashi can hardly think straight. Abe's chest is close, his voice loud, and that slinky, hopeful feeling is snaking its way around his tummy and throat.

Abe releases him, cursing vehemently, and Mihashi apologizes.

Mihashi thinks how odd it is that Abe is so red in the face, still so close, and almost smiling.

* * *

 

**Theory**

Shoji leaned on one arm while Sakaeguchi rambled; he was going a mile a minute, taking small breaks to cram fries in his mouth or take a long gulp of soda. It was their rare treat. Secretly, once a month, they would go to a burger joint the next district over, and eat one terrible, delicious meal.

“I was thinking this a little while ago, from watching him and Abe. At the beginning, you know, he wouldn't let go of the mound at all. But now, because he looks up to Abe so much, he said he would. In junior high, I think he was ignored pretty severely, so he didn't feel like he properly existed.”

Shoji nodded, eating fries one at a time. When Yuuto was excited, his whole face lit up, and his eyes seemed to sparkle with thoughts, all tumbling around, trying to find their way out.

“But the game can't go forward without the pitcher, right? So as long as he was on the mound, he existed. And I can remember how nervous and small he held himself when we got started, so...”

Yuuto paused to think; an idea was rolling around his mind, partially formed and struggling for grip. He stole Suyama's drink cup and drank the rest of his best friend's soda. “I think... he feels like he exists outside of the mound because of Abe.”

He blushed, knowing how it sounded. More strange than that was the way Suyama blinked, laughed a little, and looked up at the ceiling, where exposed rafters lent the family burger place its rustic charm. Finally he responded, “I think I can understand that.”

* * *

 

 

**Stress Response**

There is something wrong with him. Something sick and weird and unyielding. Hanai had tried to treat it like a normal thing, had tried to give it the attention it demanded, but there was too much, all the time. He tried to be mature about it- but it would not vanish or dissipate.

In the end, there wasn't anything he could do.

And seeing Tajima nearly every day did not help. And seeing Tajima run, or jump, or catch, or bat, or _strip and shower_ , made it worse. It was insane. Beyond comprehension. And now they were embroiled in an official game and he was terrified that Tajima _had begun to notice._

* * *

**Soon**

From the safety of the dugout, Suyama watches Sakaeguchi bat. He does his job well, and it is a marvel to see him smiling as he returns, not hurt in the least at not getting on base. There is nothing special about this moment, nothing out of the ordinary, but Suyama finds him completely mesmerizing.

He'll have to say something, sooner or later.

* * *

 

**Sudden**

Tajima is high on cloud nine; things are going well. He's confident, assured. Watching Hanai approach the plate, he bounces on his heels, wondering what to do with the antsy, anticipatory feeling building up in his chest. Sometimes Hanai pisses him off. Sometimes Hanai makes him want to... _dance_ or something.

He frowned. No, that wasn't it.

There was no accurate facsimile. No word meant what Hanai made him feel. Perhaps, though... _excitement._

It reminds him of how some of his older siblings talk and he feels, suddenly, _so_ irritated. Hanai isn't allowed to do that to him. That's just _not allowed._

Another run is scored and Hanai enters the dug-out. He's pulling his gloves off of his strong hands- _not allowed-_ and a small line of sweat is disappearing down his neck- _not fucking allowed._

“Don't be too content.” He says, words more calm than his interior by a wide mile. Hanai seems surprised. Good. Shake him up. Scare him off. Keep him at a distance. “Don't tell me you are?”

And then he walks away.

* * *

 

**Sudden**

The implications of Tajima's words ricochet inside of Hanai's head; there is a feeling attached. Some kind of anger, some kind of gut-churning anxiety. He's second-guessing himself. Tajima might be right.

Tajima might be better than him.

Is.

Suddenly, Hanai wants to break something.

* * *

 

**Back to Good**

_It makes me happy to be counted on._ Mihashi thinks, jogging to the mound. Abe  _counts_ on him. It feels better than forcing an out, better than hitting, better than winning, better than  _pitching_ . It feels so amazing. He lets out a small, nervous laugh.  _Abe counts on me._

* * *

 

**Jeering**

Experimentally, Abe says, “Quite a lot of heckling out there.”

Mihashi is unstrapping one of the catcher's shin guards; “Yeah. But I'm okay.”

It's simple, but it means everything. Abe had been worried about Mihashi's frame of mind, had wanted to protect him from being hurt, but the pitcher is doing all right on his own. Is perfectly content.

Abe goes on, “Everything's going to plan.”

“Y-Yeah,” Mihashi giggles, pulling the guard away. Abe's airy, happy voice makes his stomach feel funny.

“Your smirk was a nice touch, too. It'll annoy them.”

Mihashi blushes, grinning and feeling a little stupid. “Right.”

And Abe is grinning, too. He's relaxed and his shoulders are rolled back and his eyebrows are tilted in a funny, confident way and Mihashi's stomach is just literally not making any sense. He tries to look away, but the awe is too great. Abe's devil-may-care face is something Mihashi isn't sure he'll ever forget.

* * *

 

**Inside Joke**

When Abe's mother meets Mihashi's mother, she apologizes for how brusque and bossy Takaya can be. Sweetly, Mihashi's mother reassures the other woman. It's a funny thing. Neither of them have any idea what will come.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter covers episodes four through six; plenty o' AbeMiha, and an upswing of HanaTaji,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GET IT. UPSWING. 'CAUSE BASEBALL.

**04**

* * *

**  
Out**

Mihashi slides on his belly for first, an awkward, last-ditch flop that neither works nor looks comfortable. Abe clenches his fists; he wants Mihashi to succeed, but he _hates_ it when the pitcher takes risks. If he was hurt...

That would be the end of everything.

And he couldn't handle it, the way his imagination ran when he saw Mihashi fall or trip or stumble. He feared seeing blood, seeing an unnatural bend or some awful break, or the worst: Mihashi falling and simply not getting back up. He couldn't... could _not..._ handle it.

* * *

 

**Thorn Inside**

Hanai has a peculiar resentment clogging up his mind; waiting on the holding spot, watching the game and watching Tajima and watching the game- and watching _Tajima._ God _damn_ him. He's standing there, coaching, looking calm and serious and taller than he really is.

But he is _not_ the clean-up hitter. Hanai is.

Hanai tries to hold on to the coach's confidence in him, but he can't help that inkling. That thorn in his side that reminds him of Tajima's skill and efficiency and prowess.

The feeling of hitting the ball, wide and high and so far away, is amazing. Thrilling, and that makes the pain of its getting caught the more devastating. Dimly, he can hear Tajima- perfect, damn Tajima- sending out words of assurance and comfort. Just the basics- “Good hit,” “Nice job.”

He can't stand it. Pulling off his gloves in the dug-out, he hears Sakaeguchi cheer for Suyama and the _jealousy_ that rips through him is startling. Their friendship is _ridiculous._ They've hung out nearly all the time since they met, seemed to share everything, and we're obviously each other's biggest fans. He wishes he had someone like that. A friend cheering for him because they want to, not because they have to.

His eyes are hot with what he knows are angry tears, and he manages to swallow down the desperate, desolate feeling that accompanies the image of Tajima in his mind. It's an official game. There are more important things than his own confused, stupid wants. Especially those of a variety he doesn't even _begin_ to understand.

He pulls himself together, finds strength in being the captain of a team he is monstrously proud of, and keeps going.

* * *

 

**Crash**

It makes sense. It hurts. And it makes _sense_.

_Even when he's injured, they rely more on Tajima than me._

_Even when he's injured._

_More than me._

Hanai can't help the way his heart hangs- heavy and sad and confused. This person who he has intermittently admired and dismayed of and resented and found... captivating, to say the least- this person is more important than him to the team.

The way Mihashi looks up to him, the way Coach prefers him, and the way the rest of the team spurs him on. It's all very clear. Though Hanai is the clean-up hitter today... Tajima is their pillar and game-changer.

It _hurts._

* * *

 

**05**

 

* * *

 

**Absence of Faith**

Tajima sees Hanai hitting, missing. It's frustrating. Seeing Hanai so tense and out of sorts stretches something inside of him; it could be called pity, but it isn't quite the same. It's an empathy, a knowing. The frustration builds and he calls, “Two outs! Two outs!”

Somehow, past his selfishness, he knows it's the wrong thing.

* * *

 

**Better Not**

Abe watches, intent, as Tajima slides into the first base and outs the batter without having to throw; he does it smoothly, magically, with confidence. It's admirable right up until he compliments Mihashi and his words turn Mihashi into putty- face red and ears practically steaming. The logical part of Abe's brain- the _biggest_ part of Abe's brain- tells him not to be ridiculous. Tajima has always been cool and confident, and has always supported Mihashi.

The possessive,  _growing larger every day_ , part of his brain wants to kick Tajima's ass into the ground.

He takes a deep breath. Steadies his heels into the dirt.

_When did I get like this? Over Mihashi of all people?_

A flash hits him, fast and hard. It's a memory of working with Mihashi during- was it against Nishiura or Tousei?- _some_ game. He had thought to himself, “If you stay with me, I’ll make you feel like this as much as you want.”

And, “It’s me who can bring out your potential.”

Oh. Oh, oh, oh. And for that moment, for one single moment, though no one saw, Abe was just as red as Mihashi.

* * *

 

**Maintenance**

Is it that same possessiveness that makes Abe's blood boil when Mihashi goes to participate in grounds maintenance? Or is it the usual protectiveness? It's not as though Mihashi is incapable... He just needs to take it easy. He needs not to overwork himself. Abe knows he won't be able to handle it if Mihashi deteriorates the same way he did last game. He _won't_.

Mihashi is so small. He's nearly the shortest person on their team, but he's entirely the lightest. He isn't malnourished by a long mile, and it isn't as though his ribs show, but he  _is_ thinner than he should be, and he  _does_ tire out the fastest.

Abe takes those same deep breaths he knows keep him from going out of his mind with temper; it is impossible to say. Protective, possessive. Either way, he isn't surprised that Mihashi won't leave his mind for even a moment.

* * *

 

**Miscommunications**

On his way to leveling the field, Mihashi is stopped by Hanai. His captain seems troubled, and his voice is unusually low. Immediately, Mihashi knows he's in trouble. Anxiety blossoms in his chest; his instinct is to run, to hide- perhaps go and hide behind Abe, that would be safest. Because not even the captain would try Abe.

And then Hanai apologized. But it didn't make sense- Hanai had spoken loudly to him, yes- but-

“N-No, you're wrong...” Mihashi tried.

“What do you mean? I'm not wrong!” Hanai's puzzled face made Mihashi's heart beat faster. It was as though he were being dared by a higher power to fly into a conniption.

Words tumbled from Mihashi's mouth, “You didn't... You didn't do anything you need to apologize for!”

More puzzlement. “Really? But you froze up at that time.”

Mihashi's heart can't handle it. It's too much to explain; the anxiety and panic is rising and rumbling and killing him. It feels like his head will blow apart. “I-I--”

He's backed himself up the wall, knees nearly shaking, and Hanai is talking, about what, he isn't sure-- “But you _weren't_ intimidated. You weren't affected- you're a good pitcher.”

It's praise. It's  _praise_ . Mihashi starts to shake, the anxiety mucking around his body and mixing with the little burst of happiness.

“What is it?”

“You're amazing, Hanai,” he lets out in a strained breath, looking down.

Hanai frowned, confused and completely blown away. “What? I'm not amazing at all.”

“You... you _are_ amazing.”

“But Tajima is more amazing than me, right?”

A silence stretches, and Mihashi is confronted with a Hanai he isn't sure he understands. It's confusing and makes him hurt to hear the note of sadness in his captain's voice. Empathy rockets through his blood; despite his best efforts, the shaking won't stop. His mind whirls; it's obvious to him now; Tajima wants to be a pitcher. Hanai was going to be a back-up pitcher, and maybe Oki, but if  _Tajima_ wants to pitch, then--

Mihashi shudders, and feels like his knees won't hold him up. “If Tajima... If Tajima becomes a pitcher, I... I... I don't stand  _a chance_ .”

Silence follows his murmuring, and he can only ramble on, “Hanai... you throw so fast, and Oki is a lefty. If you two became serious... I wouldn't stand a chance, then.”

The idea makes him feel as though he's been punched in the gut, and it makes him feel the burn of  _what if_ . “If that happens... I... I... I'll compete!”

The shout seems to startle Hanai as much as it startled Mihashi, and he drops back against the wall, clutching his shirt, “I'm... I'm sorry!”

It feels like his heart will hammer from his chest. His stomach is tied in the tightest knot, and he doesn't know what to do. He wishes Abe were around.

* * *

 

**Epiphany**

In the end, Mihashi completely misunderstands Hanai. But  _Hanai_ understands.  _It's okay to compare ourselves to others. It's good to compete... to become better._

And suddenly, the poison leaves his body.

* * *

 

 

**Short and Sweet... Or, Not.**

 

Hanai is shocked when Tajima comes back from grounds maintenance, marches right up to him, and demands that he not bully Mihashi. It's shocking to know that Tajima can read the peculiar state Mihashi is in and immediately pinpoint a cause. And take _action_.

Hanai senses that Tajima's sense of justice is intense, indeed.

And, he can't help but feel, through the awkward feeling of being berated, that Tajima is unutterably stunning when he's mad.

* * *

 

**Overdrive**

“Mihashi! Stop jerking around!” Abe's voice is loud and firm from the dug-out, and it carries that _thing_ that Mihashi thinks he can hear sometimes; that gentleness or worry or protectiveness to which he thinks he might be addicted.

_That's right... Abe doesn't want me to get hurt._ He adjusts his stance over home plate and focuses.

_Abe is worried._

When the pitch connects with his bat, it feels like a firework.

* * *

 

**Anti-Sparkle**

Tajima calls out to Hanai to praise him; he's pleased that the opportunity has arisen. Especially afte yelling at him by the tool sheds. He also does an impression of Coach that makes Hanai laugh a small, curious laugh. Tajima nods; Hanai grins and lights up in a funny way.

As he jogs away, Tajima watches and thinks very hard about the reasons why he likes to touch on Hanai's nerves so much. It doesn't seem to matter if they're good or bad nerves, as long as he get a reaction.

Of course, theirs is a particularly reserved captain, so... Of course he would enjoy getting a kind of rise out of Hanai.

And that's all.

Really.

Tajima glances up, at the clouds, and lets out a nervous laugh.  _Maybe not._

* * *

 

**Anti-Dis-Sparkle**

After the game, Tajima approaches Hanai. He can't help it. Part of him is cautious. Part of him wants to... start a fight, or something. It's a strange, aggressive feeling he isn't familiar with.

They banter and it's easy, but he knows there's an undercurrent.

Hanai regards him, curiosity blatant in his dark eyes.

“I would have thought you'd want the clean-up spot right back?” Hanai is saying, looking strangely handsome with his eyebrow quirked.

“Moron!” the smaller boy grinds out, getting closer, as if he had no control over his body. “That's no fun. And what's least fun is this injury.”

He grasped his wrist and looked down, suddenly embarrassed, suddenly a little sad. He didn't want Hanai to see this. He didn't want  _anyone_ to see this. But he can't help himself. “I was able to hit Takase's sinker... but I'm so frustrated!”

Vaguely, as he hollers into the ground, he can register Hanai's hands rising, palms out-stretched. They must be like his- calloused. He feels that frustration hit a boiling point and then roil away. Impulsively, unable to stop himself, he grumbles upward, “I hate tall guys, anyway.”

Hanai can't even articulate. He stares down at Tajima- short and spunky and with the spray of freckles across his nose- and can't believe what he's hearing. Tajima puts his hands on his hips. He feels like he's revealed too much. Like he can't stop himself from revealing more. “It goes without saying, doesn't it? ...I'm short.”

“But you're going to grow, aren't you?” Hanai sputters- and it's funny because of how tall he is. Only Hamada is taller, but that's cheating because he's older.

“Well, then it won't matter!”

And Tajima takes the first chance he can to run away, because it's funny, because he's embarrassed, and because he isn't sure he can keep looking up into Hanai's sweet, confused face.

* * *

 

 

**Anti-Dis-Establish-Sparkle**

Tajima's attention. All of it. On him.

_I really don't get it,_ Hanai thinks, beginning to flush with happiness,  _But I'm really glad I'm tall!_

* * *

 

**Give Or Take**

After the game, Mihashi lays out on an old yoga mat; it's _so_ hard to watch everyone else enjoy the popsicles Shinooka brought, but it's also _very_ nice to have Abe's hands on him. He's stretching his hips in a pilates move, while Abe carefully rubs his right arm. Abe's focus is _so_ intense. And his hands are _so_ warm.

Everything in the world is good. Except he might melt in Abe's grasp before he gets a chance at the popsicles.  
  


* * *

**06**

* * *

 

**Train**

Mihashi is nervous, still convinced his pitching is no good, and it's driving Abe insane. On the bright side, assuring the pitcher that intentional walks and giving up strategic hits is all about the flow of the game, and going with the best odds. It's the most they've spoken in a while, but it's getting easier.

Mihashi doesn't frazzle Abe's nerves the same way he used to; the blonde is under his skin, on his mind, and impossible to understand, but he isn't _infuriating._ He's in a good mood, feeling more patient than he ever has, riding high on a solid win and Mihashi's continued health. Watching Mihashi cling to a pole on the train, he wants to clasp him on the shoulder, or _something_ , to be encouraging, supportive.

It's taken a long time, but he's sure he's getting better at taking care of the pitcher, and it makes him warm and anxiously happy, as if a an especially nice rug might be pulled out from under him.

He takes one step forward, hanging on to a loop that swings limp from the roof of the trundling train; Mihashi glances up at him for only a fraction of a second before looking away. His ears are red, and Abe knows it's cute- _feels_ that it is. One more step. Mihashi is shaking sporadically, hands white-knuckling the pole though the ride is relatively smooth. _Is it because of me?_

Abe swallows, throat dry. His heart takes one brief trip up to his collar bones before returning to its usual location; it's definitely beating faster. “You're a good pitcher, Mihashi. You're great.”

He says it more quietly than he'd intended, more low in his throat; in one quick, brave motion, he reaches out and ruffles Mihashi's hair- it's a little dry, but soft enough- and lets his hand drag gently over the pitcher's ear, neck, and shoulder, ending in a firm clasp around the top of Mihashi's chilly arm.

He lets go, but he can't breathe; Mihashi is looking at him with the largest, most uncomprehending eyes he's ever seen. He isn't sure himself what to think. One minute he'd been frustrated, the next, his patience had won out- and then, his affection. A long moment passes; Abe clears his throat, flushes, and almost says something- anything- to change the subject, to escape the situation. He's certain Mihashi is going to go into histrionics any moment: “You don't hate me? I'm no good,” etcetera. But Mihashi doesn't. He only looks down, pulls himself closer to the pole, and says, “You're the great one.”

Peering closely, Abe can see that Mihashi is smiling a very small, very sweet little smile.

And it's beautiful.

* * *

 

**Bully**

With the air cleared between them, Hanai and Tajima settle into a cautions, slow-moving friendship. It hasn't made it's way past baseball practice, but things are going well. Hanai is thrilled when Tajima moves away from Mihashi and the magazine they'd been sharing and confides, “It does kind of looks like Abe is bullying Mihashi. I know he's not really, but I feel defensive about it.”

“You're really like Mihashi's older brother, Tajima, that's unexpected,” Hanai watches the world fling past them, and it's mostly green, but he can see the shorter boy in window as a partial, undulating reflection with dark eyes.

“Someone has to look out for him, he's... I dunno, fragile.”

“Yeah,” Hanai smiles. It's true, but it's funny. Even Tajima is sturdier than Mihashi, but it all comes down to fortitude, and Tajima is _made_ of fortitude. He's tough, ballsy, and loud- confident and brash and charismatic. The adjectives roll around in Hanai's mind unbidden, without connection. He shakes his head, but nothing is cleared.

His focus returns to the hills and the houses and the city; he doesn't notice Tajima's reflection, regarding him with dark eyes.

* * *

 

**Value**

Abe took a couple of cautions steps away, and Mihashi relaxed. The explanation of the game layouts had helped immensely; knowing that he had gotten the called game confused with regular games. It strikes him now, in a way it hasn't before- the words Abe had said, and his tone and pitches and how he'd been patient.

And how he'd ruffled his hair and patted his shoulder.

_The called game was for me. To keep me safe and healthy._

_Abe cares about me._

Abe's fiangers had brushed his neck, and his ear. Of course- it must not have been intentional. That would be- what would that be? Mihashi smiles again and touches his ear. It's warmer than it usually is; he shivers when he thinks of Abe's hand against his neck instead of his shoulder. It's a fascinating, tempting kind of thought. The redness that spreads across his face is deep and conspicuous, and he drops his head to avoid seeing his team-mates.

This means something. Abe means something.

_Abe cares about me._

* * *

 

**Radar Blip**

_I'm trying to foster his self-confidence, but it's difficult._

“Abe... thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

_Abe was testing me..._

_I guess our conversation is over... I learn so much when I talk to Abe. Abe is amazing. As long as Abe is with me, I'll be fine.  
_

* * *

**The Unexpected**

Later that day, when Mihashi makes it to practice in his black shirt and baseball breeches, he hears the familiar, solid _thump_ of a baseball hitting a glove, followed by a familiar, pleasantly deep voice, “All right, eighteen. Now nineteen.”

And the first thing he sees is Abe determined face, followed by Oki's relaxed stance. He isn't sure why, but it feels like he's been socked in the gut. It isn't as though he didn't know Oki and Hanai practiced pitching, but it seemed like Tajima's realm to be the secondary catcher.

Not Abe.

Abe is _his_ catcher. But... he _is_ an amazing catcher, so _of course_ Oki would need to train with him--

In the split second, he wonders if this is the feeling a person has when they walk in on their love with another person. It's absurd and a little selfish, he knows, but the feeling is there.

Before he has a chance to examine it, tear it down, or understand its implications, Tajima is hollering to him, watermelons stuffed into his shirt. It's ridiculous enough that the tension in his spine goes out.

But later, alone in his room with the moonlight peering on the foot of his bed, he'll remember it.

* * *

 

**Prioritize**

They're stretching, and it's familiar and safe. Mihashi thinks, if he had had a sibling, this is what it would be like.

“Is Oki practicing a curveball?” Tajima wonders aloud, pressing his thumbs into the bottom of his foot.

“I- I think so.”

“I'm envious of lefties. If I were left-handed, I'd probably be a pitcher.”

Mihashi startles at his friend's off-handedness and casual demeanor; “You... you want to be a pitcher?”

Tajima grins and shakes his head, “Nah, I prioritize hitting. Pitchers don't get as much hitting practice.”

“If Tajima got serious about pitching, I wouldn't stand a chance,” the blonde mumbles to himself, forgetting to switch and rub his other foot.

“What about Hanai, then? What if he got serious?” it's out of his mouth before Tajima has a chance to think, and it makes his exceedingly self-conscious. He has no idea why.

Mihashi only blinks at him thoughtfully, and Tajima presses on in a rush. “What about Oki?”

“W-With Abe, I won't lose.”

“Without Abe, you'll lose?” Tajima leans forward, wrinkling his nose.

Mihashi looks distressed, and he glances to the side before saying, “Abe will... be there. Always.”

“Always?”

“A-Always.”

Tajima knows then, something he probably shouldn't. It doesn't surprise him, but it makes him wonder.

* * *

 

**Check-Up**

The day is getting cooler; the sun is rising slowly, casually climbing the sky as if sleepy. Abe stretches one arm up and feels a spot in his back crack happily; it's been a pretty good day so far, even with the minor weirdness of yesterday. He can see Mihashi at the fountain, pulling his shirt over his head, and he is reminded.

His intentions are noble, but he can't help examining Mihashi's torso more _thoroughly_ than he usually does. The blonde is slight and pale, paler where his jersey covers. There's a vague, blurry line where his arms and neck are darker than the rest of him, but the sunscreen he uses must be pretty strong, because it's hard to tell. Overall, it's a lovely sight. His skin is smoother than Abe is used to seeing, and has fewer spots and discolorations. Izumi and Tajima both have freckles on their upper backs, and Izumi has yet more on his shoulders. Oki and Sakaeguchi are unfortunately spotty, and Suyama is covered in old scratches and scars from his rough play style.

Mihashi has very few scars, indeed.

“Oy,” he says by way of greeting, hand gripping his bag strap in concentration, “How was your weight today?”

“Good morning. It was... fifty-three kilograms. Plus just a little, I think,” Mihashi, halfway into of his shirt, turns and pauses. Abe's voice was so thick just then.

“Oh, you're just about back. You did great,” Abe smiles and lets one hand rest on his hip. It's exciting to know that their combined efforts brought Mihashi back up to health. Though fifty-three kilograms is still feather-light compared to other boys his age, it's a start. And it's not as though Mihashi can help it, Abe ponders, seeing as he's so petite and practices so much.

Mihashi's face has taken on a faraway, elated expression that makes Abe want to laugh- it's cute, painfully so.

“Tajima! Are you still using the injury menu in practice today?”

From across the field, Tajima grins, “I'm back to normal today!”

Turning back, Abe starts unbuttoning his shirt and is vaguely disappointed to see that he missed Mihashi pulling his practice shirt on. “Mihashi, Tajima is back to normal, so I want you to stretch and play catch with me.”

“Nn? All of it?” Mihashi's tone is curious, and Abe is _certain_ he detects hopefulness.

“You often stretch with Tajima, but that scares me. Like something bad could happen at any minute,” Abe goes on, citing all of the reasons he wants to keep an eye on Mihashi's menu and pitch count and health. But, deep down, he knows that much of it is just wanting Mihashi to himself.

* * *

 

 

**Insecure**

Mihashi doesn't mind what Izumi and Sakaeguchi consider nagging; he only hangs on to the remarkable thought,  _Abe cares about me!_

It's enough to make his heart skip beats, but his insecurity won't let him rest. “Abe... thank y-you.”

“Sure.”

A pause. The insecurity is strong, it tells Mihashi not to count on a good thing persisting. It tells him he's not worth the effort. “A-Abe...?”

“What?”

“Are you g-going to...” he grips the front of his shirt, mouth dry, “...quit catching?”

And Abe explodes. “Of course not, you idiot! What about me make you _think_ that? It makes me want to cry!”

Mihashi cowers, instantly and compactly, and can't believe he said what he said. Though is Abe's reaction is _anything_ go by, he has no reason to worry. Tearfully, he tells his insecurity to bite a bullet.

Abe takes a deep breath; the games are so important from here, and he wants more than anything for Mihashi to be happy and relaxed and ready to face things. He isn't sure if he can handle the idea that Mihashi may not trust him to stick to his word, but then he recalls how it was for him at Mihoshi academy, and it's not so hard to understand.

This cowering, quivering mess; he can take care of this. He can make it better.

Abe is certain.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the first thing I wrote for the series. It is essentially why I went back to the beginning and really started this project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after a late practice. Maybe a Saturday.

**Confession  
  
**

* * *

 

“But _Haruna_ -” Mihashi insisted, his fists caught in the fabric of his shirt, tears hot in his eyes.

“Haruna nothing!” Abe shouted, going from placid to volcanic in zero seconds; Mihashi cringed, regretting having said anything. Abe watched, felt chagrin pile on top of his frustration, and forced himself to take a step back. “Look… sit down.”

Mihashi, trembling, collapsed onto the dug-out bench. Behind and to the right of Abe, he could see the remainder of the sunset, red and pink and orange and draped in clouds. He clenched his hands between his knees and wished- but what for, he was unsure.

Abe knelt in front of his feet, his partial crouch reminded Mihashi of pitching practice, and beyond his flustered thoughts, he became slightly more relaxed. As Abe opened his mouth, the pitcher blurted, “I’m sorry! I’m really-- really sorry.”

The dark-haired boy shook his head, and that strange, gentle smile that Mihashi liked was on his lips. “Do you even know what you’re sorry for? Don’t apologize, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

He reached out and tugged at Mihashi right wrist. “Give me your hand, okay?”

Mihashi did, and Abe enclosed it with both of his warm hands. “Relax,” he said, and then took a deep breath. “Okay, two things. Two, I think. Just don’t interrupt me.”

The blonde nodded, so fast his vision momentarily blurred.

“First, Haruna is _not_ my pitcher. He used to be, that’s all. _You_ are my pitcher,” Abe paused when Mihashi’s mouth opened, but only a squeak made it past Mihashi’s lips before the pitcher clapped his left hand over his mouth- and now the tears were falling slowly, cautiously abating.

“Even if I catch a pitch for Oki, or Hanai, _you_ are my pitcher. Second,” he turned Mihashi’s hand over and clasped it tight between his own palms, feeling warmth finally spreading through, “Haruna is… he’s not how you think. It _wasn’t_ great to be his catcher. I- that is--”

“Abe…?” Mihashi’s voice was a teeny whisper, and his damp eyes were focused so intently on Abe that he felt his pulse jump into his throat. Mihashi… made him feel strangely, sometimes.

“Don’t tell anyone. Not even Sakaeguchi knows,” Mihashi nodded, biting his lip, “Haruna isn’t how you think. Even I used to feel fortunate to be paired with him, but… I was stupid. I was in denial. He may have a great fastball, but he _does_ lack control. He shakes off signs just to be contrary. He’s selfish with his pitches… and he’s cruel.

“Whenever I caught for him, my body trembled. ...Everybody is afraid of getting hurt.”

Abe had looked down at their hands to avoid the warm, confusing feeling that looking into Mihashi’s face brought on. With concerted effort, he returned his gaze to Mihashi’s eyes and said firmly, “You are better than him. You are _greater_ than him. You would… you would never hurt me on purpose, right?”

Mihashi looked shocked by the very suggestion, and his breath came out in a surprised gasp. “That’s right… you would never go out of your way to see if you could bruise me, or make me lose my breath, or… make me… cry.”

Abe _did_ want to cry. It was so wholly strange, but the confession made him feel like a door had been opened, and the feelings behind that door wanted to be purged through tears. He blinked rapidly, quickly brushed his face against his shoulders, and returned to looking at the neutral point of their connected hands. “Haruna made me cry many times. I hated him. I know that even when you develop your fast ball, you’ll never try to hurt me with it. And that’s why… I don’t have to think about it; if someone asked me, I would always choose you for a pitcher over him. _You_ are my pitcher. I’m proud to catch your throws, proud to be helping you improve.”

It was a mouthful and it fell from his lips fast and easily, for the first time with Mihashi. “So, Haruna _nothing_. Don’t think about him. Don’t compare yourself to him. Don’t think I like him more than-- than I like you,” he finished lamely, flushing hot against his collar.

Mihashi’s fingertips curled, warm, against the top if his hand, his face scrunched up with the effort of not crying, and Abe laughed. “And a third thing, you are a _great_ pitcher. Don’t forget it.”

Mihashi paused, then nodded, his head coming to rest at an angle as he looked down at Abe. The catcher felt good, felt cleansed. He was glad to have told the truth to Mihashi; he gave the other boy’s hand a squeeze, happy that it was so warm, and stood.

“Okay, so let’s get moving. There’s still plenty of daylight to get home,” he said, a little gruff, embarrassed at the happy little tears that Mihashi seemed to be crying. The pitcher scuffed his eyes against his forearms and nodded again, but said nothing.

The sun sank low, and when Abe turned away from the blonde, he couldn’t help but smile.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamada and Izumi find their way back to one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you how much this means to me.

**Reset**

* * *

 

Hamada had been feeling tense for probably three weeks; it had started with random, innocuous things like waking up late a few times, eating bad sushi, getting into a little fight over the phone, and bombing a mathematics quiz. And then having Shiga bar him from the Sakitama game. _That_ had been the worst; the one straw that left him trembling with pent-up irritation and stress. Life was _only_ tolerable because of baseball. Working, studying, working, studying, and baseball. He had left Shiga's office with his fists clenched, face carefully blank.

“Shit,” he breathed, walking with deliberate steps toward the west exit. He made it down two flights of stairs, around the corner, and past the double doors without doing what he wanted to do- hit something. Outside the school was a study in beauty; blue skies and slow clouds, birds. Happy students heading to their after-school activities. To his right, a young man caught his eye; glossy dark hair and a rebellious, tilted collar. Large eyes. Whoever he was, he was gorgeous. But he wasn't Izumi.

The boy was walking with two girls who seemed to be vying for his attention, and Hamada wondered- for a moment- what it was like to be actively pursued. Trudging to the baseball field, a heaviness settling on his shoulders, it was without hesitation that he thought more on his own beautiful boy, Izumi. It was impossible to think of him otherwise. He had had him _once_ after all, for a time. The thought gave him a chill; a memory of Izumi looking up at him, eyes wide and uncertain, then coy and understanding. Izumi was the living personification of extremes, beautiful, deadly, and capable of anything.

There was a bench to the side of the path, shaded and looking recently built; Hamada collapsed into it, wincing as the back bars bit into his spine. He dropped his head into his hands and took one long, deep breath. Izumi was a _bundle_ of contradictions, and he had recently swung to an extreme Hamada didn't _want_ to understand. The younger boy had gone back to ignoring him, avoiding him, and treating him like a stranger, but with the added complication of strange, contemplative looks. Looks that _meant_ something, as if Izumi was attempting to puzzle out a mystery, or was turning over a variety of conflicting facts in his mind. Hamada would catch him in the midst of these looks, turning his peripheral vision to the side and watching color either drain or fill the other boy's freckled cheeks. 

It was discomfiting. Things had been going so _well._ For the first time since re-acquainting themselves through the team, Izumi had begun to act warmly around Yoshiro. Had begun to walk and sit a little closer by. Had begun to speak more, and ask more earnest questions. At turns, had been sweet. The blonde had believed, foolishly, for a bit, that things might turn around for them. That they might at least... be friends. He would have been happy with just that, just having Izumi's presence in his life, nearby, accessible- if bittersweet.

They neither of them spoke of what had happened; neither willing, perhaps, to open that wound. Some unspoken rule prevented the disclosure of their past, and Hamada was uncertain of how he felt for _that,_ either. Some moments of silence would pass between them, strange and thick, and he would want to scream and shout and grab Izumi's shoulders- begging, perhaps: “Did you forget? Tell me, at least, that you didn't _forget_.”

He knew Izumi hadn't. He hadn't.

Birds sang. They didn't know.

* * *

Izumi blinked. A rush of emotions was tangling up in his head, and he couldn't quite pull one away from the other and make some sense from the maelstrom. Hamada shrugged, “Yeah.”

“Oh,” he said, more quietly than he'd intended. So Hamada wouldn't be able to be there for the Sakitama game. He fiddled with his hands until his cap was off his over-warm head and crushed to his chest. Hamada watched him; his expression reminded Izumi of _that_ time, and it made the emotions fighting in his head rise to a clamorous din. “Okay.”

Hamada nodded and turned; he hadn't yet told Coach. Izumi gripped his cap, eyebrows drawn tightly.

_It was not okay._

* * *

 The afternoon of the Sakitama game, Hamada was wild with pent-up energy. He coerced his cheer-mates into hours of stretching, exercising, and practicing their routines for the games they _would_ be able to cheer on Nishiura, but the physical activity did little to ease his mind. Always on the back-burner of his mind was a hot coil of _wondering_. How was the team doing? Were they winning, losing? Did the presence of the cheer squad make a difference?

He tied his over-shirt around his waist and stretched from side to side; they'd just completed another round of laps, circling the baseball field. He was about to suggest they call it a day when his phone, innocuous in his pocket, buzzed. His heart gave a leap- his phone had been silent all day, so this-

This had to be the verdict. He fumbled and cursed and got it out of the depths of his athletic pants and held it out; Riki and Keisuke had gathered around him, just as desperate to know the result of their team's game. It was from Shinooka. And Nishiura had won.

They whooped and hollered, Hamada jumping in tight, excited leaps while his grin grew and the warm sun flickered across his skin. Riki pushed his glasses farther up his nose and let out a long, happy exhalation, while Keisuke ran his hands through his hair, over and over, as if too stunned to stop. Hamada laughed, “This is great. This is so great!”

Ten minutes later, spent on happy energy, they agreed to end their day and made off in different directions, still occasionally calling out in glee. It was three blocks from the school that Hamada's phone buzzed again, this time with a call.

* * *

  
The display reads _Kosuke_. His heart hammers, hard, just once, and the hair on his arms and neck rises with a chill. It is _Kosuke_ calling him- so sudden and out of the blue and for the first time in a year and a half. Closer to two years, now. He is surprised that the number and the name still match; somehow, Izumi seems the type who might have a different mobile number by now. He flips his phone back open and raises it almost cautiously to his ear. “Hello?” he says, voice strange and rough. He swallows hard.

“ _I missed you,_ ” a soft voice carries to him, quiet, as if lost somewhere.

Hamada balks but hardly has to think, “Izumi- I'm so sorry. I wish I could have been there, but Shiga-”

“ _Yoshiro..._ ”

The blonde stops. Utterly stops, in the middle of the walkway, halfway between a tree and a fence and the what feels like the rest of his life. He says nothing, only grips the phone and waits.

“ _Not just that... Not that. I mean..._ ”

There is a tone- a quality- in Izumi's voice that breaks Hamada's heart. He had only heard it once before, and he had never wanted to hear it again- but now, hear it he does. It is every fragility and weakness that Izumi refuses to show to anyone, ever. The little, weak and gentle part of himself that he hides and protects and keeps from the world: it trembles to Hamada now, far and away, crossing a distance that is not measured in physical terms alone. “Izumi...?” he finally tries, but he's worried it isn't the answer his beautiful boy needs and he swallows again, throat dry.

“ _Can I see you? Please... can I just-_ ”

“Of course! Yes, yes... Can you write down my address? I live in an apartment building within busing distance of the school--”

“ _I'll remember it,_ ” Izumi's voice is faint, but there is a tone of amusement there that eases the tension in Hamada's shoulders. He recites his address twice, then a third time, exactly as Izumi requests, and then there is a long pause before Izumi says, “ _I'll be there in a little less than two hours._ ”

“Okay,” Yoshiro says, mind spinning, and before he has time to worry over how to end the call, Izumi says, in a voice hardly more than a hoarse whisper, “ _See you soon,_ ” and hangs up.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Hamada shuts his phone and takes a deep breath. The sun is still shining. A breeze lifts through the trees lining the walk, catches on and ruffles Hamada's hair. Several minutes of dazed quiet hover around and past the teen, before he comes back to himself, vaguely startled. He was aware of a heavy, nervous feeling in his chest; a minor catch in his breathing; a bird wheeling above.

And finally he is able to walk forward.

* * *

  
When the bell rings, Hamada is halfway through straightening his futon; he has given up entirely on rolling it every day. There just isn't time, with baseball in the morning and work in the evening. He has only been home himself for about a half hour; there was trash here and there, now stuffed haphazardly in a bin, and he'd tried to scoot his few, hardly touched, video games into a reasonable-looking pile. There really wasn't much in the apartment; it was of the modern, ultra-tiny variety, with a kitchen and laundry hall leading to a cozy, but reasonably-sized living area. The futon was in the far corner, near the closet, alongside the window, across from the television. He didn't have cable, but the building provided free wifi, and his second-hand laptop lived on a thrift store coffee table, where eating, homework, and the occasional, sudden, nap all regularly occurred.

He had never been embarrassed of it before, but now his apartment seemed woefully understated and sad.

Stumbling from his crouch in front of the rumpled bed, he hurries to the sliding door and muscles his way through the tiny kitchen hall. Standing in the lowered genkan area, his nervousness gets the better of him, and he has to take a deep breath. It's Izumi. On the other side of the door.

When he opens the door, it's like his heart forgets how to work for a moment, but then Izumi pushes himself through the arch without any ceremony and the spell is broken. It's all normal. The dark-haired boy toes off his shoes, keeping his eyes down, and then lets his overfull duffel bag to the floor. He's not sure what else to do with it, but it's too heavy to keep dealing with.

Hamada's apartment is cute; he looks to his left and sees the sink and kitchen, a rice-cooker, and a tiny, single load laundry machine. There is a small door just ahead that must lead to the patio and the laundry lines, past everything else is a half-open sliding door, and he can see the edge of a futon from where he stands. He looks away, neck hot.

“Hey, there,” Hamada says, leaning back against the patio door to give Izumi space. “I'm, uh, glad you won the game today. It's great. You guys are going to go far, you know that?”

A scoff, “Not if I keep skipping practices to check up on you.” And just like that, Izumi slides his feet into the never-before-used guest slippers and tromps into the kitchen as though he owns it. He's opening the handful of cupboards and grimacing unapologetically. “Really? How are you living...?”

Yoshiro says nothing, only grins. Izumi is out of uniform, layered up in a tee over a long-sleeve, with bracelets shoved over his left wrist. They're of the braided friendship variety that have become popular at the high school, and they look like gifts. “Yeah, things are kind of tight right now.”

A moment passes, with Izumi frowning and Hamada wondering if he's gone and said the wrong thing.

“What happened?” Kosuke finally asks, turning and crossing his arms, his hip pressed into the lip of the sink.

Hamada hadn't disclosed the whole story to more than five people, beyond his family, but it was _Kosuke_ asking, and he wasn't about to lie. “A lot. A _lot_ a lot, I guess. Okay. After the layoffs, Mom started drinking really heavily, and she started, you know. Drifting? Suddenly she just... left. Dad was devastated... but there was nothing for us to do."

He shrugged, wary of the sharp look in Izumi's eyes. "We hadn't seen a steady paycheck in, I don't know, two months? and I was only working a few hours a week back then. He moved my sisters back to my grandparent's house, in the country, and I stayed here. This used to be my cousin's apartment... Anyway, I worked too hard the first year, and missed too much school. That's why I'm repeating. He wanted me to go, too, but... I couldn't leave. My uncle helped me get a job at a gas station--”

Izumi's arms are limp now, at his sides, and his eyes are blazing somehow, angry and sad and focused. Hamada charges on, “And, hey, now I'm learning a lot about car repair, 'cause it's also a workshop, and I think I'm going to be an apprentice. It's fun.”

And then Izumi is rushing over and _shoving_ him, hard, at the chest. Yoshiro is unprepared and knocks into the door, winded and hearing, “Stupid!”

A bundle of fury, but he's not moving away. His dark hair near Hamada's collar bones- it is exactly as Hamada remembers, it feels the same, sweet in its own way. He reaches out and risks, pulls Izumi close to his chest, and breathes in, deeply, for the first time. The younger does not fight him, only lets himself be held and struggles to think of the words he wants to say, of the things done he wants to right.

“Izumi-” he tries, but he is already being shoved away, again, though with less vehemence.

“We're having curry for dinner. I'm going to the market I passed on the way here. You wash the dishes while I'm gone.”

And just like that, Yoshiro goes from holding Izumi to gazing at the space he once occupied, the guest slippers right back where they started. There is nothing to be said. He does the dishes.

* * *

 “It was a good game,” Izumi says, somehow demure around a mouthful of sticky, yellowed rice, “There's a lot of room for improvement, but god knows Mihashi is always going above and beyond. He drives everyone crazy, of course, but I don't really mind. It's all the same to me.”

Hamada nods and stirs the pot of curry; it's steaming pleasantly between them, resting on the only pot-holder he owns. In his room, everything is quiet and calm, intimate and strangely domestic. Izumi had returned twenty-two and a half minutes after he'd left, efficiently whipped up a Thai-style curry and had been exceedingly pleased when Hamada had revealed that the rice-cooker was already humming and mostly done.

Izumi had served into the black lacquer bowls that Hamada hardly used, glancing up at the blonde through sooty eyelashes. And with no one around, Hamada was happy to see that his beautiful boy was with him in force, not pretending to hardly know him. At turns, he would lever his spoon into his bowl and just exhale, almost smiling. Hamada knew the look. He'd worried he'd never see it again.

“I missed you,” he blurts, blue eyes trained on Izumi's lips, now turned in a small frown. With a shudder in his stomach, he realizes that the meal is ruined. After all this time, Izumi is the same; secretive and cold, sweeping and sweet. Hamada is just as good as he ever was at detecting which and when.

The bowl in Izumi's hand, ounces of spicy broth rolling in small waves, comes crashing down to the coffee table. His eyes are dark and furious. It hadn't been his intention, Izumi realizes, when he broke down and contacted Hamada- came to his home and cooked for him- to really _deal_ with the problem that existed between them, like a darkness. And that had been foolish.

He isn't ready. He doesn't want the responsibility. With a deep, unsettled breath, he pushes the bowl away and feels his brows draw close. It's always been Hamada that could do this- it's always been Hamada who could make him come undone. And as much as he wants the shallow, easy truce, he knows there's no avoiding what is about to transpire. Like a tidal wave of water, they have reached an apex.

He doesn't want to say it, but out it comes, “ _You_ walked away from _me._ ”

The blood washes from Hamada's gorgeous face, and it's an awful thumping that his heart has taken to.

“Kosuke-”

“I had to leave everything behind, most of all _you_ , and you just... _walked away_ , and you didn't call or even _text_ and for the last two years I've just-”

“You didn't call me, either-” Hamada huffs, bowl forgotten, fists clenched. “And you didn't give me much warning-”

“-I didn't know what to think, I thought you _hated_ me because I had to-”

“-Every day I wished you hadn't left-”

“-I couldn't stop thinking about you and what we had done and I wondered if I would always be this _fucked up_ -”

“-I _loved_ you, I didn't know _what to do_ _without you_ -”

“-And then I found one of your shirts in my things and- and- and-!” there is an unkind _thump_ from one of the neighboring walls and Izumi realizes with embarrassment that he has been shouting and is _almost hyperventilating,_ and _almost crying_. His breath shudders in and out, awful and thick, and the hopeless, desperate look in Hamada's eyes makes him sick inside. He manages to whisper, “And it's in my duffel bag. It's always there.”

Silence and the kind of heavy breathing that _reminds_ them both.

Hamada seems to be ready to reach out, seems open and handsome and kind and everything that Izumi can't defend himself against, and he knows that if he is touched, if Hamada's warm fingers brush him, even a little, he will fall apart. He stands. With his hands raking through his overlong bangs and drawing down to cover his freckled cheeks, he has no idea how fetching he is. Hamada licks his lips, heart aching. The only thing he wants to do is grab Kosuke up and keep him forever.

A vision of Izumi's continued presence breaches all his defenses- Izumi in a plain, white apron, cooking and grumbling, lying in bed for hours, limbs tangled, coming home from the garage to find Izumi hunched over homework at the coffee table, fighting over how many rounds they each get when sharing video games, walking _home_ together after baseball practice- and he stands, stumbling to catch up to Izumi's troubled pacing.

It's too much.

“I shouldn't have- I should leave-”

“Kosuke, please,” Hamada hears himself saying, his voice riding a line between gentle and desperate. “Don't- let me-”

Cheeks flushed and eyes damp with angry tears, Izumi stutters to a halt in the middle of the room, unsure of where to go or what to do. Nothing feels real. He has to remind himself that he didn't make it all up- that, a long time ago, they had seduced each other and _meant_ it. “Yoshiro?”

Hamada knows, then, what a broken heart sounds like.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know what to think at that time- I couldn't handle it. I shouldn't have walked away from you, but... I thought you didn't care. You were so calm. But you- you're always so calm when you're upset, aren't you?”

Izumi shakes his head, knowing better. “I feel like my ribs are all cracked.”

Hamada reaches out, tentative. It makes the most sense to take Kosuke by the chest, fingers wrapped carefully around his smaller frame. “When I realized how... stupid I was being, it was too late. You were gone and I didn't... I didn't know if you wanted to hear from me.”

“Your shirt-”

Yoshiro laughs a small, relieved laugh, “Keep it.”

And Izumi can't help but let out a breathless giggle in return, “No- I mean... When I found it...”

Hamada watches the adam's apple of Kosuke's long throat bob helplessly around an unsure swallow. The raging, nasty Izumi has vanished, as quickly as a bird on a wire. With a tug, Izumi tumbles against Hamada's chest- where he belongs. The older boy does not miss the vague, terrified whisper near his collar bones: “I knew... I loved you so much...”

“I love you, too,” Yoshiro rushes, squeezing tight, reckless. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I never stopped. I thought it would go away. I thought it couldn't possibly last, and then _I saw you_ , my beautiful boy. I can't believe you came back.”

Kosuke's only response is to grasp his arms tightly around Hamada's back. His face is turned, eyes shut tightly, and Yoshiro doesn't miss the way he shakes. Doesn't miss the thrill of joy in his chest. There is no hesitation; he curls downward, nosing Izumi's hair and forehead and earning an upturned cheek. For a moment, their breath lingers between them in hot puffs. The younger is glassy-eyed and dazed, and Hamada is unbelieving of his luck. Carefully, he presses his lips against Kosuke's, gentle until Kosuke presses back, needful and intense. There is a whine in the back of the dark-haired boy's throat, a keen of relief, and Yoshiro feeds on it, elated.

The kiss is damp and molten, and lasts for longer than Hamada knows he deserves. It is like a dream.

He's only back to reality when Izumi pulls back, face pained, and mutters, “It can't be like before. I need... time.”

“Time...?” he has to take in the glossy, burning look in Kosuke's pretty, dark eyes, and the full, ruddy color of his lips to understand. “Oh. _Oh._ God.”

He earns a look of hurt.

“No! No, I understand. I... I think that's a good idea,” he loosens his hold to card his fingers though the other's hair, in awe of the way it parts and shifts. “For both of us.”

A pause. “I'm... I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have... been so stubborn. I should have-”

It is another thing entirely to kiss Izumi breathless; to quiet him and his doubts and his worries with a sure tongue. It is as intimate as he needs, Yoshiro knows; if they never touched again, only kissed and gave over to smiles like the one Izumi is giving him now, it would be enough.

“It's fine. Everything is fine. Thank you for forgiving me.”

“Thank you for... still... loving me. I'm sor-”

An unrelenting embrace, tight and possessive, then, “Don't apologize. We're okay.”

A tension swept out of Izumi, simply fell away from him, and he collapsed without shame against Yoshiro, fingers tight in the fabric of his soft tee. “Let's start over.”

A kiss to his temple. “Anything you want.”

“You. Just you.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suyama and Sakaeguchi go on a friend date; Suyama is ready to come clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eight pages of two young man panicking at each other.

**Surfacing**

* * *

 

1:22pm. Message from Suyama Shoji.  
_I know it's earlier than usual, but Sakitama was pretty intense, so let's go out to our restaurant tomorrow. Instead of next week._

1:28pm. Message from Suyama Shoji.  
_I mean, we don't have to- if you're busy, you know, that's okay. I just want to go with you. It's my treat._

1:30pm. Message from Suyama Shoji.  
_Sorry to bug you-- don't mind me, okay? See you later??_

Sakaeguchi gazed in amusement to his mobile screen. Suyama was clearly pumped from their win. It gave him, too, a little thrill of excitement to sneak away to their restaurant and cheat on their baseball health diets. When Suyama bit into an overlarge and dripping cheeseburger, he'd mile and his eyes would crinkle in the most wonderful way. Sakaeguchi grinned and messaged back, _Okay, but if it's your treat, I'm getting double chicken strips. Meet you at the stop, okay?_

* * *

  
Suyama took a deep breath. He had barely recovered; Sakaeguchi's message had been so relaxed. So unassuming. Shoji had come so, so close to writing too much. To saying what he always wanted to say. And worrying about sounding pushy, or needy- oh, god. Well. He had a choice now.

There was a plan, and that plan could backfire- probably would backfire. Or he could bite his tongue again, always always _always_ skirting too close to the words that moved inside his mind and body. To bite his tongue; that was always the safe thing to do. Because Sakaeguchi meant _so much_ to him. Would he ever have a best friend like Yuuto? After this, ever?

Was it worth letting the words out?

But the words were killing him, trapped in his skull and his chest. An anxiety in his throat that became sharper and sharper the more or less time he spent with Yuuto and Yuuto's sweet smile and little neuroses and kind words and open face.

So if he didn't let it out- wasn't honest and a little bit forward- the words would take him down and never let him go. He took a deep breath, pocketed the mobile, and scruffed his hands over his freshly shortened hair. He had to be brave. The bravest.   
  
Maybe he should buy flowers.

* * *

  
There had been days where he wasn't sure- wasn't certain. But then the feelings would come up at him in waves, touring his stomach in sharp, rolling storms of anxiety, and the second and third time he found himself bent over a trash bin, losing his meals and his mind, he had nothing left to rationalize.

* * *

  
1:40pm. Message from Suyama Shoji.  
_I have to run an errand before I head out, meet you at the restaurant okay?_

* * *

  
Sakaeguchi brushed his teeth and glanced at his watch. And his heart did a tiny, weak little somersault that he knew must be assuring him he wasn't late. The brush went back into the cup and his feet took him back to the bedroom, where pieces of dirty uniform and half-finished homework fought for territory on the floor. His bed was a rumpled mess. The blankets were twisted and turned into the remnants of the chilly, human burrito he had turned himself into late the last night. Sleeping at Shoji's was _so_ much nicer for heat. Shoji's family turned the heat up only once in a while, so it was cold, but-

-when Shoji slept, he did so conversationally, casually, rolling over and pulling Sakaeguchi in like a teddy bear.

With a grin, Sakaeguchi pocketed his phone and blew a kiss to the idol poster beside his bed.

Winning against Sakitama, getting junk food with his best friend. Usually they rode out together, but this was okay. This was fine, too

_Nothing_ could ruin his day.

* * *

  
At Mihashi's birthday, Sakaeguchi had shared food with Mihashi, and for a moment, Suyama had been jealous. Just- one moment, brief and unreliable. And then he had sat back and thought, No, not this feeling.

Mihashi had been flushed from the attention, but it wasn't what Suyama had _thought_ he was seeing. Wasn't what his mind was _supplying._

It was only a moment. Sakaeguchi's sweetness and Mihashi, who needed all the attention and affection in the world.

And Suyama knowing that his jealousy was a test.

One he wasn't sure Sakaeguchi and their friendship deserved. At all.

* * *

  
Mihashi had complimented Sakaeguchi once. About his communication skills or patience. He couldn't remember; but he remembered as he walked to the bus stop, how nice that had been. In a way similar to Suyama, who would make his admiration clear, smiling a very warm smile that lit Yuuto up inside. As he clambered onto the bus, showing his pass in distraction and almost tripping over the top step, Sakaeguchi thrummed with renewed excitement. A smile pulled his cheeks and his stomach did a small, unnecessary roll behind his belly button; they spent so much time together as it was, so why get all flustered _now_? He shook his head. Settled his bag. An instinct was screaming at him beneath it all. Rocketing across his synapses and turning his focus up and in. Suyama. This adventure. There was clearly something- they _did_ spend a lot of time together, but lately-

And hadn't Suyama been distracted?

Hadn't he seemed-

It wasn't as though-

A girl across the way glanced at him, smiled a flirtatious little smile, and returned her attention to her mobile.

It wasn't as though...

Of _course_. It was a girl. Suyama was acting weird because _there was a girl._

Yuuto's heart went shuddering up into this throat and he could not conceive why it had come to this.

He should have known.

* * *

  
By the time the bus stuttered into its space between the game store and the insurance building, Sakaeguchi's heart had run through every pace it knew- twice. Leaping off the last step and rushing down the block toward their restaurant, he had tried to breathe and had tried to quell the insane feeling of stress that jerked at his nerves. The blustering muscle in his chest, however, wouldn't have it.

There had to be a reason, right?

So what if was- a girl?

That didn't have to mean anything. He pulled the door open, shuffling through, and trying to school his breath into something not resembling a _pant_. Nothing had to change. Suyama was his best friend, had been for so long. Longer than he could really remember. And there Suyama was, in their usual spot- alone.

The brunette bowed quickly to the hostess and made his way over, feeling lighter but winded.

“Shoji!” he stage-whispered, pulling himself into the booth and exhaling with a relief that came from no where at all. Suyama was smiling, leaning back on his side and fiddling with his sleeve. On the table, shoved against the drink menu and condiment carrier, was a bouquet of flowers.

A bouquet of flowers

Bouquet _. Flowers._

Wait. _Wait._ Was he going to meet her? Was she _here_?

Sakaeguchi stopped moving and stared. Suddenly terrified. It was all true. And things really were going to change.

* * *

  
Suyama took a deep breath. Sakaeguchi was being- sort of- cagey. He was glancing restlessly around the restaurant, pulling his lower lip between his teeth and taking short breaths. Oh, no. Oh, god. Suyama sat up straight. Sakaeguchi knew. He was nervous and he was going to- the flowers had been too much-

Suyama took another deep breath, heard slammed up into the top of his ribs, but Yuuto spoke first. “Shoji. Um. I kinda wish you’d warned me. I didn’t really dress to meet anybody. But I guess this is probably okay?”

The smaller brunette lifted his arms, indicating the button up over the long sleeve look he liked for casual wear. His face was flushed, not just from bounding in like he had, as if the bus had been running late. Suyama leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Sakaeguchi? I’m not sure-”

The waitress that greeted them was probably one of the cutest girls who worked there. Short, dark hair- she’d only recently cut it- and the friendliest smile. She always made it feel like they were having a meal with family. Her name was- it was-

“The usual guys?” she didn’t even have a pen out; just had her left hand on the table and her right hand in her pocket. She was so familiar. Suyama wasn’t sure she did that at other tables. With more traditional-looking groups. Her voice was light and high.

When they had first started eating there, she had been nervous and had made some rookie mistakes. Everyone made mistakes. This was their waitress-friend, _Satsuki_ \- right- and this had been a mistake-

He shouldn’t have brought flowers. He shouldn’t have thought he could do this. That he _should_ do this. Shoji was nodding, hyper-aware, starting to sweat. Sakaeguchi wasn’t looking at him or the menu- he was staring at Satsuki. And then he was nodding, too, and she scurried off to grab them a pair of cokes.

* * *

_  
Was it Satsuki?_ Was her shift almost over? Would she be joining them? Would she sit by Suyama and knock shoulders with him and be so sweet and so cute, with her little nose and her unmarked skin? Would she knock their drinks over like she had a year ago, forgivably adorable and- and-

And _with Shoji?_

* * *

  
Shoji had no idea what Yuuto was talking about, but his nerves were on fire trying to reign in his panic. His stomach was turning. He took a deep breath, tried to calm down, and forced himself to smile.

Sakaeguchi smiled back, weak and a little green around the edges. Maybe. Maybe-

He could do this. At the very least, the waiting would be over. “Sakaeguchi. Um. No one is coming- I mean. No one else is meeting us here, if that’s what you thought. I’m sorry to spring this on you, it’s just-”

He took another breath, feeling the blood in his face warming and the hammering in his chest rocketing up a notch. “I had something to tell you. You can, um, leave afterward, if you want. I’ll understand. I- I just wanted to be honest. Um. I hope you’ll stay and just hear me out.”

With a shy grimace he reached out and pushed the bouquet closer to Yuuto’s side of the table. “For a while, I- um. Whenever we were together, I would be _so happy_. And I thought it was because- I mean, a big part of it has _always_ been- you’ve always been a really good friend to me. You’re the best friend I have ever had.” 

* * *

  
Yuuto felt his face go hot, and he stared, wide-eyed. He had never heard so much conveyed before, in the words ‘best friend.’ There was more affection there than he felt he could immediately process, but- Shoji’s ears were burning red, too, and his eyes were bright. Sakaeguchi let his hands slip to the edge of the table, fingertips grazing a napkin on his one hand, and the bundle of flowers on the other. Shoji- and his jaw was set and his voice was steadying- and his face was handsome right now, in this light- and Yuuto could remember this feeling, deep between his ribs, when during the game he’d nearly panicked, and Suyama had held his hands-

-and his back had been warm-

-and his eyes had been kind-

-and his attention had been focused-

-and he had smiled, smiled _so much-_

“Oh,” he breathed, perhaps audible, perhaps not. Shoji licked his lips to speak again, and Satsuki settled two foggy glasses of cola down between them. He watched Suyama bite down on whatever words he had been preparing to deliver, and Yuuto felt his heart whipping inside his chest. They hadn’t even opened their menus. 

“The usu-” he croaked and then choked out, “The usual, please!”

Satsuki blinked and he stared at her, trying, somehow to convey to her how much she needed to _walk away right now._ She tilted her head and then said, still friendly, “Chicken strip basket with pickles on the side, and a homestyle cheeseburger. Hold the lettuce, extra tomato, extra fries. Got it, guys. It’ll be out in a few.”

She walked over to one of the terminals the servers used to send orders to the kitchen, and Sakaeguchi dragged his gaze back to Suyama. Suyama, his best friend, who was- who might literally be-

_Saying what Yuuto thought he might be saying._

* * *

  
“Heh,” Shoji rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the sweat on the nearer glass. He empathized. “I don’t know how to go about this. I’ve never- um. I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve… had crushes. Little ones. Like, I thought a guy was cute, or I admired his style. Um. The boy that transferred away at the end of last year. I never really put a lot of thought into it. Except I knew most everybody else got crushes on girls, so I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to make waves. I didn’t want anyone to… dislike me. I didn’t know what you would think, either.”

Sakaeguchi didn’t know it, but he was methodically shredding his napkin. An anxious habit. Shoji smiled again; the story was getting easier to tell. “In the end, I didn’t think you’d mind. You’ve always been supportive. And I can’t think of a single time you’ve been judgmental… ever. You’re a really- a really good guy, did you know that?”

The other boy flushed, the corners of his mouth turning upward. He ducked his head for a moment before bringing his gaze back to Shoji; he looked stupefied. Maybe in a good way.

“I’ve had- I’ve felt… like this. Um. For a while. I didn’t want to say anything because… Because I didn’t know how. And I didn’t want to ruin what we have,” he ran his hands over his bristly hair, and groaned, “I was so- so downtrodden when you talked about how cute Mihashi’s cousin is!”

“Ruri,” Sakaeguchi whispered, though he remained transfixed. He didn’t seem to realize he’d even spoken.

“So I thought I didn’t have a chance. And maybe I don’t. But Sa- _Yuuto_. You make me feel- you make me feel- like I could do anything. Like we could take on the whole world. You- you’re cute, you know? Do you know that? I feel like I’m always staring at you. And I’ve felt bad every time we’ve hung out or had a sleepover because I’ve started feeling like I’m taking advantage of you. Of your friendship. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

A deep breath rattled through Sakaeguchi’s ribs, but he made no comment, only narrowed his eyes in a kind of sympathy. Even now, Suyama mused, he lacked judgement. He was the best person in the universe, there could be no doubt. “Um. Sorry for rambling so much. I’ve, uh, been trying to think of how to say this for a long time.” 

Yuuto gave a little nod, still shredding his napkin, but at a slower rate. Suyama indicated the flowers. “So those are for you. You don’t have to take them, but I wanted to get you something to say thank you and to- to go out on a limb, I guess. We’ve been friends for a really long time, so I was hoping… I was really hoping you might just give me a chance. Give me just one chance to see if… see if maybe you might try… being more than friends.”

* * *

 

This was a face he had seen only rarely on Suyama. A kind of helpless, hopeful expression. He had affected it during the Nishiura game… and before that, when we was trying to talk Yuuto down from an especially bad anxiety attack. It made the thing- the feeling- that had been haunting and trundling around in his chest and in his skull warp and shift and turn into a thing with a name. A feeling with a name. Understanding swept through him at the same time as his shot nerves. There was no girl.

There had never been any girl.

Just him. He said softly, because he did not know what else to say, “Shoji.”

“You don’t have to. And you don’t have to stay my friend. I-I understand if it makes you uncomfortable, having a guy ask you out. I mean-”

“Shoji,” he said again, as softly, but more firmly. He felt a little dizzy. So many things were coming together in the back of his mind; so many looks and touches and words and smiles. And at the core of it, at the very bottom and center, there was only relief.

There was no sense of betrayal, so disgust. Only- strangely, a memory.

“A few weeks ago,” he started, then startled as their food arrived- appearing out of nowhere. He looked up and found Satsuki shifting a small, extra place of fries from her forearm and onto the table, halfway between them. She knew they shared everything. She didn’t even really know them, but she knew they shared everything. In tune, somehow, she left them a stack of extra napkins, a ramekin of ranch, and bid them a cheery _Enjoy, I’ll come back around a little later for your refills._

He glanced around the restaurant, dazed. For the first time in twenty minutes he saw that there were other people, other booths. Music playing faintly in the background. He glanced up at the rafters, but that brought the dizzy feeling back. “We forgot to ask for extra chicken strips,” Suyama said, sudden, off-hand and off-key.

Air heaved so quickly past Yuuto’s lips, he startled himself all over again. The snort turned into a giggle and before he knew it, Suyama was laughing along with him, picking tiny snowflakes of napkin out of their food. His nerves were quieting down, but his heart still beat a little overquick. It meant something.

He started again, idly running a French fry through their ketchup-and-ranch mix. “A few weeks ago, Mihashi got nervous around me. I don’t really remember what it was about, but I remember thinking, something like, ‘does he really think I’d glare at him?’ and it really hurt my heart. He’s so sweet and he really deserves a lot. And I was thinking what I’d really like to do is hug him and try to make him feel better. Try to make him feel good.

“And around that same time, he gave me a compliment. He actually said something like what you’ve been saying. About, um, how I’m a nice person? I guess? And I was really embarrassed but really happy, too. And… um. There’s a guy at the coffee shop near my house. When he hands me my drink, sometimes his fingers touch mine, and when they don’t, I’m kind of, um. Disappointed.”

Shoji’s mouth was hanging very slightly open, his hand near his burger, but nowhere near lifting it to his face. His ears were the brightest red Yuuto had ever seen. “So I think I can understand where you’re coming from, I think. Because I’ve felt like that about girls, too, and… I guess… when I think about it…” 

His stomach did a faint turn, and he giggled helplessly, “I guess it makes me really happy to hear that I make you feel that way.”

Suyama froze. Sakaeguchi watched him as his features slowly came back to life, a smile so wide and genuinely delighted, he had no power but to smile back. Shoji ducked his head, grabbed the back of his neck, and let out a strangled giggle. “So you… you’ll still be my friend and everything?”

He felt himself blush, finally moving the fry to his mouth. “I hope we’re always, always, always friends. I don’t know how to not be friends with you.”

“You’re not… too mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“For me taking advantage of you.”

Sakaeguchi shook his head, smiled. “I think I took advantage of you, too. I think sometimes I might even have been jealous when you spent time with our other friends.”

Suyama swallowed his heart down. This could _not_ be happening. What alternate reality where all his dreams came true had he stumbled in to?

“Y-Yuuto?” he blinked, trying and failing to casually lift his cheeseburger.

Sakaeguchi pulled his hand from the bud of one of the bright pink, red, and yellow flowers. He didn’t know what they were, but he had a feeling they had meanings. He had another feeling that Suyama probably didn’t know that- had just grabbed a pretty bouquet that was in his price range. That, of all things, made his heart warm up with the bright, crushing affection he had for the taller boy.

Affection. “Yeah?”

“Will you go out with- with me?”

Or a crush, slow-building and settled in his soul. He grinned again, “Okay. I’ll go out with you.”

They could at least try it out. See what happened. He finally grabbed a hank of chicken and brought it to his lips. He hadn’t expected this. He wasn’t sure he could have ever predicted it, but it made sense, and it made him happy, and he wanted to try.

And maybe he could have all the warmth that Suyama had to offer. And maybe he would know what it felt like to hold his hand outside of practices and games. And most of all, maybe he could chase down the feeling that had been taunting the edge of his understanding, and know that Shoji would be there to support him, no matter what happened. Abruptly, he pulled the flowers into his lap, for a moment squeezing them against his ribs.

So that’s what it felt like.

Shoji was watching him with shining eyes. There had been a tension in his shoulders that was gone entirely now; a stiffness in his limbs and in his throat. He was smiling, irrepressibly, and eating with verve. Sakaeguchi grinned back. They were going to hold hands on the bus ride home. See what it felt like. He had decided.

* * *

  
Suyama felt like dancing in his seat, or jumping up and down, or anything. Anything at all. He felt like the world should know of his victory. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, _I’m going to date this guy. This guy right here with the perfect ears, and the perfect laugh. I’m going to prove how happy I can make him. Twice as happy as he makes me, no-_  
  
_Three times as happy._

_Look at him. He’s going to give me a chance._

_And I can finally breathe again._

He lifted his hand and waved at Satsuki. He needed to order a second round of chicken strips for his date- as promised.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers 7 through 9, and there is a lot- a lot a lot- of AbeMiha in here. Bits of all the others occurring throughout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a baseball game-play question while I was writing this chapter, that had nothing to do with anything that was happening, and that is how completely, unutterable gone I am.

**07**

* * *

 

 

 

**Slow Change**

Izumi wonders, hands gripping the bat, feeling its weight all the way to his shoulders and back, as though it were an extension of his body, _how_ he can hear Hamada’s voice over the din of the music and the other cheerleaders. He wonders if he’s making it up in his head. Hamada’s back is _turned away_ right now, for the love of-

But he’s so _sure._ Over and through it all, he can hear Hamada calling out for him. And it feels just as good as the swing, as the crack of the ball careening away.

 

* * *

 

 

**Winning Feeling**

Kounan goes down with relative ease- six to three- and Momoe doesn’t catch herself before launching into Shiga’s arms, laughing and cheering. He doesn’t seem to mind. Doesn’t seem to even think- just catches her around the waist and swings her in a small circle against his broad chest. She drops down, suddenly aware, but Shiga is still laughing. He claps her on the shoulder and continues through the dugout, passing out high-fives to Nishihiro and Oki and Suyama and Sakaeguchi down a line.

Her heart clambers behind her chest, delighted still with their win, but manic at the lingering feel of Shiga’s hand- large and strong- around her, lifting her with ease.

And the recollection, too, of how close his mouth had been to her ear, her neck. Her mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

**Circular Misgiving**

He can hear Hamada leading the closing cheers, and he can feel Abe’s hands on his ribs as he stretches. The grass is warm and soft enough. He doesn’t even feel that tired. Mihashi can’t believe his good luck- winning and winning and winning. Mihoshi had been loss after loss after loss, and his teammates had wanted him _gone._ This was different. Not just better, but…

Something more.

Abe’s fingers dig in slightly, in a comforting way. As though he’s making sure that Mihashi doesn’t float away. He doesn’t ever want to go away. Wants Abe holding him down to the earth forever. Because—if Abe weren’t here-

If Abe _left-_

Mihashi’s heart rate starts to climb and his mumbles, “Um, Abe…”

He can feel Abe pausing behind me. “You wouldn’t quit Nishiura…?”

The words are out of his mouth before he can really make sense of why, but the reaction he gets from Abe is- telling.

“Of course I wouldn’t quit!” his knuckles are against Mihashi’s skull, rubbing in an agitating way, but it’s more embarrassing than painful. Mihashi mumbles but can’t quite articulate, and Abe adds, “You’ve kept asking that for some time!”

“If you don’t quit, that’s fine!” the blonde wails in turn, hands hovering in useless arcs. He wants to grasp at the hands on his head, but _can’t,_ oh, he _can’t._

“Do you _want_ me to quit?!” Abe growls, tightening his hold. There’s something in his voice- some kind of quiet disbelief in the anger. Mihashi’s whimpers, trying to wrap his mind around the feeling he has, trying to find the words-

“If you quit, I won’t be able to pitch anymore!” he finally manages, broken from his cyclic unease by Hanai’s shout to stop horsing around. Almost immediately, Abe relinquishes his hold, and Mihashi’s slumps forward. His eyes are damp and he’s started hiccuping. It’s hard to explain, to understand, but it’s _true._ Without Abe- how can he-? How is he supposed to-?

It makes him so worried, he can’t help it. Abe mutters, “I’m amazed you can keep finding ways to feel misgiving.”

Mihashi turns, trying to find his breath, trying to feel anchored. Abe is giving him a funny smile- not a real smile, but something sort of- amused? He blinks upward, his heart finally settling.

“I’m going to be your catcher all three years. I’m saying _I’m going to._ Got it?”

His heart flares and wraps around the words, ties them tightly to the spaces between his ribs. It’s like the panic was never there at all. “Y-Yes!”  
  


* * *

 

  
  
**Careful, Careful**

They have to move all the equipment to the van. Hanai snaps his mobile shut and barks orders; it makes Mihashi feel secure. When he knows exactly what to do, it’s hard to mess up. But then-

He grasps the cylinder bag that holds the bats and _immediately_ , there, Abe’s voice cuts behind him. Warning him. He startles, almost drops the bag. What did he do wrong-?

“Are you okay?” Abe is yelling, kindness and surprise a kind of slush as he reaches Mihashi’s side. “You startle too easily. Be more careful!”

“You shouldn’t carry that,” Hanai reaches out and shoulders the bag with no trouble. Abe nods, hefting his own bag higher onto his back.

“Just stay with the rest of the bags. What if your finger jammed? It would be the end of things for us.”

So Mihashi stays with the bags, disheartened but feeling looked after. “I can’t get injured watching the bags, right?” he murmurs to himself, crouching to the ground and wrapping his arms around his legs. He wishes he were tougher. Wishes he didn’t feel like glass.  


* * *

  
  
**Abe, Takaya**

This man is large and imposing, and at first, _at first,_ Mihashi has no idea what to make of him. But it’s only moments in when he catches up to the brazen adult’s laugh and hearty clapping at his back. This is Abe’s father. This is his dad.

In some ways, Mihashi is shocked. Abe is so much… so much more… sedate? No. Just, less rambunctious. Abe’s father is smiling and jovial, jokes about son. Abe is always so serious, so it throws Mihashi through a kind of loop. But it’s evident that they look alike, that the timber of the voices is similar, and in spite of his nerves, Mihashi thinks he rather likes this person who is Abe’s father.

He isn’t able to say anything- his throat is closed and he can’t seem to open it up- but abruptly, Abe’s father asks him, ‘Is he afraid of Takaya?’

And Mihashi thinks that’s a pretty good way to describe how he feels sometimes. He can only give an abortive nod, too overwhelmed by the behemoth personality and figure in front of him.

 _I’m scared._ He thinks, while Abe’s dad bids him goodbye. _I’m scared that… he’ll leave me._  


* * *

 

  
**Home Sweet Home**

Mihashi isn’t sure how to express it to his dad, this _feeling._ He gets excited over the meat buns (one of his absolute favorites). He’s happy when his mom comes to his games, even if it makes him nervous. But there’s a nervousness, a nausea, that slides to the back of his throat because his dad asks _questions._ Always has. His mom is content to let him be, never forcing the issue, but his dad-

His dad has always been more intense. And where it’s made him successful at work, it makes Mihashi nervous, because… because if Dad asks about Abe, what will he say?

Will he say too much?  


* * *

 

  
**Home Sweet Home**

Dad _can’t_ know. He… _absolutely_ … _cannot… know._

Abe slams his hands down on the dinner table and is quickly reprimanded. It’s fine. He’s done with dinner anyway. Brushing his teeth, his holds his shoulders too close to his body and starts to feel the tension pulling on his neck. What does Dad even know? Of course he’s getting along with Mihashi. And they’re even… friends, in a way.

He slows. Stares at his reflection. Dad’s criticisms are hot in the back of his mind. And his defenses, the ones he can’t use, are hot there, too.

For a moment he only grips his tooth brush in agony, thinking, in reality, it’s true that no one has really contacted him. He _hasn’t_ gone out to do any activities with his team mates- except for lunch at Mihashi’s that afternoon?

And thinking back, was he supposed to have come? Or had he sort of… happened into it?

What was he supposed to think now?

Abe spat and reached for the floss, his nerves fraying as he wondered over his father’s spot-on critique of his friendships. It had felt, alarmingly, like he might be closer to the other truth, where Abe would have to admit to how much he cared about Mihashi. In spite of everything. In spite of the language barrier and the stress and the nervous ticks and the cold palms and- and-

 _How is it I care so much about him, but we’re not really friends? We’re… we’re really not friends, are we?_  


* * *

 

**If**

They’re going to have lunch together, just the two of them. A small part of Abe’s mind whirls this information around, trying to catch on to other thoughts, but he keeps it in check. It doesn’t have to mean more than what it means. Although…

It would be nice. Mihashi seems content, if absent-minded, and although he feels compelled to make sure his pitcher isn’t worried over anything, he’s fairly confident things are- basically- all right.

Essentially. And, if they’re going to eat lunch together, even if it’s to talk about upcoming game strategy, can’t it still be a first step? To being friends?

Abe feels his neck flush. It’s more than that.

 

* * *

 

**Beginning of the End**

The next game, this one against Bijoudai-Sayama, is about to begin. Mihashi’s heart is wound a bit tightly, but his usual worry is at a low throttle. Throwing the ball into Abe’s glove feels like going home, like nothing can go wrong. Abe is friendly and seems happy with him and that’s worth everything in the world right now. Their lunch the other day was especially nice, still a pleasant memory, where Abe had switched sides in the cafeterium in order to better show Mihashi the playbook and its notes.

Their knees had brushed, over and over, and had eventually settled knocked together, and Mihashi thinks to how warm and comforting that little contact was whenever he starts to feel nervous. As long as he has Abe, he can do anything. Abe is counting out his throws, his voice a deep, pleased grumble, and the pitcher feels grounded and safe. Somehow at ease, even with this important game ahead of them.

“Do you feel any fatigue from the day before yesterday?” Abe asks once Mihashi has come to stop in front of him. He assesses Mihashi’s speed, general gait, breathing pattern. The warm-up has put a very light flush across the other boy’s pale neck; it’s pretty and only worries Abe a little bit.

“I- I don’t feel any!” is the sure reply. Abe hands back the ball, conscious of the way his fingers brush the pitcher’s palm.

“All right,” he takes a step closer, “Your ball is coming out well, and you’re in good condition, too. Listen. They have three pitchers. Don’t overdo it trying to keep up with them. You’re our only pitcher!”

He knows how it sounds- _You’re the only pitcher for us. For me._ He wonders if Mihashi hears it, too, by the way he shivers and flushes with the praise. It makes Abe’s chest tight to see him that way, pleased and letting himself feel good and important. They wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without Mihashi’s skill, and it kills him to think of the many ways Mihashi underestimates his value.

“Yeah! I won’t overdo it!” Mihashi’s exalts, his face bright and eyes like jewels. He looks, Abe thinks, about the happiest Abe’s ever seen. His chest gets a little tighter, springing up for something. Mihashi tilts, the flush of color traveling over his ears, his voice an excited chirp, “I’m in good shape today, too!”

“Yeah, it feels good to catch for you!” Abe grins before going to jog away. He’s happy, but he’s also worried he might… spring.

But Mihashi’s voice warbles after him, a thread of something worshipful pulling Abe in. “It’s all thanks to you…”

He slows, stops. Looks back. The blonde’s arms are in front of his narrow chest, protective, but he goes on as if he has something to convince Abe of. “The pitch count, the stretches, the rice-balls… I can’t do any of them myself. It’s all because of you—that I’m in good shape.”

Abe can barely breathe. He’s shocked. This feels like the first time, and maybe it is, that he feels like he understands what Mihashi is saying to him. That Mihashi is opened up to him, truthful and trusting. It feels so real, and his focus is so sharp on the other boy, that the rest of the world, for a moment, ceases.

“It’s all because of you. So I- I want to win!”

He can’t help it. He rushes back, rushes forward, and clasps Mihashi’s head. The pitcher’s hat goes soaring, and he tousles the wheat blonde hair with a fervor. He wants to drive the point home, somehow make Mihashi feel it from his hands and into his head. _I care about you. You amaze me._ He can’t help it. The tight thing in his chest won’t let him walk away, won’t let him do anything but spring forward, always toward Mihashi.

The strands are softer than the last time, and Abe guesses Mihashi must have washed it that morning. He lets his glove rest there, on the curve of Mihashi’s crown, and almost lets his forehead rest there, too. But the rest of the world is there, and watching, and above all, he doesn’t want to overwhelm Mihashi. “You got it!” he rasps, heart thudding with excitement.

Mihashi nods his head, a little frantic, but not upset. His cheeks are flushed, now, too, and Abe thinks he looks beautiful like this. Not just cute, but completely beautiful- when he’s confident and excited and hair mussed from Abe’s attentions. He wants more. Just a little bit. His right arm swings itself over Mihashi’s shoulders and tugs him closer. He’s warm. His palms are probably warm, too. Abe closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, so preoccupied he doesn’t mind Mihashi’s dropped head, the little shiver he gives as he pushes his shoulder closer in to Abe’s side. The little, overjoyed smile and sigh.

Because Mihashi isn’t sure what he did right, what he did to earn it, but Abe is _holding_ him, _hugging_ him, and it’s the nicest, warmest feeling in the whole world.  


* * *

**08**

* * *

 

**Familiar Thing**

The lines of Abe’s legs in their crouch, and the seriousness of his face; Mihashi lets himself take a long look before the throw. Everything adds together while he is on the mound. The steady gaze that Abe holds to him, the strike of Abe’s signs, and the familiarity of his own arm, his own hand, as he draws himself back and forward, and through.

Ball. He breathes deep, trying to keep his expression relaxed. Everything is how Abe plans. It’s comfortable. He can always trust in his catcher. The remaining pitches go through, and Mihashi keeps breathing. There’s a small voice in the back of his spine, whispering. It knows that _something_ is amiss. But every time it whispers, he looks back to Abe, and the feeling quiets. Abe is… there. Everything is how he plans.

Right?

 

* * *

  
  
**Tumult**

Something is strange. Are their pitches being read somehow- their signs, decoded? Abe grits his teeth, wondering if it’s him or possibly Mihashi. Mihashi whose knees knock together as the batter takes all four bases. No. It’s not Mihashi, couldn’t be. He’s innocent in this. In all things.

Abe’s gut, though, is tight with worry. Something is _amiss._

“Mihashi!” he calls out, several metres before reaching the pitcher. He wants to see Mihashi up close; there is a comfort here, in the lines of Mihashi’s shoulders and in his feathery eyebrows. “Give me your hand.”

Mihashi chirps and immediately slots his palm against Abe’s. He watched the other boy’s expression change. It hovered somewhere between surprise and confusion. Concern. Mihashi’s palm had been cool, but a bit warmer than his own, for once. And Abe wasn’t above the grateful feeling that flushed through him. “You feel that?”

Mihashi’s small hand curled into a fist and hovered, unsure. “You’ll be blamed for the run, but it’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

The pitcher shook his head in a rare display of disagreement, color high in his cheeks. It made Abe feel… strangely accepted. It wasn’t as though it were surprising, necessarily, but it was a reminder of how supportive Mihashi really was. That he would take the blame without hesitation, even though it wasn’t his doing. That he must care about what Abe felt.

The catcher’s heart felt tight, felt like _springing._ But there still was work to do; he drew his glove up to his mouth to hide his words from the other team. “Even though it’s only the first inning, we’re going to change our plan. We’re going to use the fast ball. Don’t act weird on the mound, okay?”

Mihashi nodded, said Okay, and Abe jogged away.

Mihashi was innocent, though. He knew that.

 _What’s next?_  


* * *

 

**Float On**

_Abe’s hand was as cold as mine._

_Abe said he was sorry._

_Abe didn’t do anything wrong… It’s my fault isn’t it?_

Isn’t it?  


* * *

 

**Instant Relaxation**

“Tajima, can we...? Izumi calls to him, hands and fingers tracing a vague imprint into the air. _Yes!_ This is one of his favorite games. Izumi is usually so serious, so he must be in a good mood to suggest it. Tajima calls to Mihashi, the third member of the game, for obvious reasons.

The blonde startles and then drifts over, nervous energy clear in his frame.

“One, two, go!” they chant, throwing the signs. He loves losing and he loves winning, so there’s no downside. When Mihashi loses, he pales and takes a step back, but after a shared look of victory, he and Izumi pounce, and it’s too late for their prey. He digs his fingers into Mihashi’s slender ribs, occasionally catching his hands against Izumi’s. The blonde gasps with laughter, twisting between his friends like bait.

He is aware of Hanai nearby, coming close to observe in confusion. They’re all three of them flushed, and Hanai’s protective shout makes his stomach turn with happiness. “Izumi gets nervous when nervous when he has to lead off, so we came up with this.”

The boy in question, never good at taking a compliment or being spoken of, pulls his cap over his face and giggles. Tajima grins up at their captain, feeling loose and spectacular. And when Hanai smiles back, amusement clear in the corners of his eyes, he can’t believe the swell of delight that fills his chest.

 

* * *

 

**Secret Look**

Sakaeguchi crouches down to Mihashi’s level, smiling gently. The other boy is wide-eyed and holding himself very tightly, breathing fast. “Are you okay?”

He can see Suyama coming over, as well, and it makes him feel vaguely parental. “Does it relax you?”

Mihashi nods, starting to stand, “Y-Yeah.”

Hanai puts his hands on Mihashi’s ribs, then, and the blonde gasps and falters downward. It’s adorable. He glances at Suyama, “Makes me feel ticklish just from watching!”

And Suyama _winks._

Yuuto’s face gets hot in an instant; he drops his gaze, laughing. _Oh, my gosh._

 

* * *

 

 

**Ugly, Faltering, Omitted**

This isn’t the first time Abe has watched Sakaeguchi enter Mihashi’s space and work to soothe him. It’s like second nature to his old schoolmate. Where does it come from? Where does the ease spring from?

When Tajima and Izumi had tackled Mihashi, every cell in his body had raged for his pitcher’s safety and comfort. It’s not as though he though his teammates were _hurting_ Mihashi, but- hearing the breathless giggles and gasps made his heart ache with relief. He doesn’t want anything bad to happen to Mihashi. Ever.

Not just for the games. Not just for the tournament, or the next three years of pitches.

For everything. He wants Mihashi safe and happy and healthy.

And he wishes he could be like Sakaeguchi, so that it would be easier to make sure.

Easier to just ask.

Easier to tell the truth.

He turns back to Momoe, disconcerted over his protectiveness and his jealousy. Over whatever this _truth_ might be.

 

* * *

  
  
What Went Unseen

Izumi bats firsts, hits it solid, and starts to run. It’s not five steps though, that he sees the mid-fielder catch it. Out, then. He catches Hamada’s eye from beyond the house; frustration eats at him. He wasn’t strong enough to sail it beyond the center field’s easy reach. It stung.

Hamada slipped his fingers through the links of chain and gave him a small nod. He smiled with what he hoped was gentleness. His beautiful boy. Izumi clenched his fists and nodded back.

It was enough to be seen. To be supported. “Next time!” he hollered, jogging back to the dugout.

It would have to be enough for now.   


* * *

 

**  
A Fading**

_Something is wrong._ The little voice was gaining traction all along Mihashi’s spine- no longer whispering, but cawing. A huge black crow of an instinct, clinging to his nerves, beating its wings along his nerve endings, and lambasting him for his attempts to silence it. Abe’s presence, especially, had been contributing to the faint and comfortable silence. But it was, he felt now, perhaps a false comfort. His instinct would not go unheard, though it was dark and wanted to scare the pitcher into hiding. Mihashi took a breath. _If Abe fails, I fail, too._

_But Abe can’t—_

Hanai’s hand on his shoulder. His captain voice. The crow beat its wings, and Mihashi tried to keep his knees from shaking.

_There’s no use thinking pessimistic thoughts._

He knew he had to focus on defense. Knew his teammates would score runs their next chance. Hope wasn’t lost. He had to stay focused. Stay relaxed, and strong. For Abe’s sake. So he could receive Abe’s signs and do his best. Without his anxiety getting the best of him. He could do it, and more than anything else, he believed in his catcher.

_Abe is going to be fine. So I’m going to be fine, too._

* * *

_  
_ **Excuses**

The game is going poorly. His teammates are warming up for their at-bats, and Abe is locked in discussion with Momokan. _Something_ is wrong. He can’t shake the feeling, can’t ignore it any longer. He pulls the sheet that he and Abe had reviewed over lunch; all of the data on their opponents laid out in neat squares… and all of it in opposition to what has been happening on the field.

_Everything is opposite to what’s written here. So that means… this data is useless._

_I must be wrong._

_What if this is something I need to tell them immediately?_

His skin feels tight at the idea. He _has_ to be wrong. But he knows better, and he swallows his panic as best as he can to alert Abe and Momokan. Abe yells at him right way, which _hurts._ He’s thankful for Tajima to decipher his attempt, because he’s not sure he can talk without really starting to bawl. _Am I ever going to be the kind of teammate Abe wants?_

“Why are you still crying?!” Abe growls, eyes dark. Whatever conversation Abe had been having with Momokan, Mihashi hadn’t been able to focus on. There had been a kind of pressure around his ears, something dark and cloying and scary. He’d stood rooted, fighting the tears and the dread, but it was _hard_ and it felt like Abe was miles away- “You don’t need to cry. Thanks to you, we might be able to do something about this.”

Mihashi brought his arms slowly down from their defensive position in front of his face; Abe was… maybe Abe was praising him. The dark, cloudy thing around his skull started to fade away, a little at a time. Mihashi sniffed, dragging his palms over his cheeks and trying to breathe normally. He watched Abe watching the other players taking their positions across the field. He wished he could be as collected as that, as strong. His breath warbled out of him, and Abe glanced back, over his shoulder. He was almost smiling.

Mihashi flushed, _he’s so handsome,_ and tried to smile back.  


* * *

 

**Passing Force**

Mihashi isn’t prepared for Abe wanting to discuss the situation with him. With Momokan, surely, but not. With. Him. He shakes, trying to find his voice, but he can’t quite make it happen. Abe is fierce, and then, so is Momokan, and they have him surrounded. The panic takes his legs out from under him, but he’s able to mumble out his idea. He shakes, heart turning cartwheels in his chest; he stares at Abe’s knees, at dust motes. _Something is wrong._  


* * *

 

 **Capsize**  
  
Tajima is vaguely furious when Hanai doesn’t take his advice. He hates Hanai’s pride more than anything in that moment, as much as he hates Hanai’s height, and his rakish smile, and his broad shoulders, and how he asks after everyone else before he asks after Tajima himself-

No, no, no. This is the worst thing. He bites his lip before forcing himself to relax. He can’t afford to get worked up. If Hanai doesn’t trust him after all this time, _fine,_ they’re not even really friends _anyway._ Teammates nothing.

Teammates _nothing._

 

* * *

 

 

**Perfect**

“Yes, that’s it. Perfect!”

Mihashi flushes with happiness, he can’t help it. Abe’s kind words rocket around in his mind, touching on the dark places and lighting them up. He’s _so happy_ to receive this small approval, even over something as insignificant as _how_ to shake off a sign.

 _Maybe Abe isn’t mad at me, after all,_ he thinks, though he can’t say for sure _why_ he thinks Abe is mad at him. He isn’t ever sure, really. He hides his face behind his mitt, trotting to the mound feeling lighter and happier. Maybe things will be okay after all.  


* * *

  **9**

* * *

 

**Between More and Less**

“Nice pitching,” Abe offers, startling Mihashi with another round of elation. It starts at the bottom of his spine and zips upward, like lightning.

“N-Nice game calling,” the pitcher counters, drawing his arms close to his body, unsure. It feels like a roller coaster today, up and down. And he isn’t sure which one this is, but he wants to be hopeful.

“You didn’t shake off any of the pitches.”

“No,” Mihashi shakes his head, still unsure, but warm, deep in his belly, for Abe’s low voice and even gaze.

“Did you want to?”

“No,” he responds emphatically, shaking his head and wishing that it would shake off the flush on his cheeks. He must be so transparent- “I like to follow your lead.”

 _I mean, that’s the best way. Doing what Abe tells me brings out the best in me._  

Abe gazes at him for a long moment, and he can’t help but look away. He feels like the whole world contracts when Abe looks at him like this- intent and probing. Flayed open like all his secrets will come tumbling out. Secrets he’s not even keeping.

“Mihashi-” Abe starts, but then clamps his mouth shut. The pitcher looks up, his ears still feel hot, but Abe only closes his eyes and shakes his head. “It’s fine. Get some water, okay?”

And Mihashi thinks there must be something important between his name from Abe’s mouth and the order that eventually followed; he just hopes it’s not a bad thing. He’s certain he couldn’t handle it… And maybe Abe knows that.

_Abe cares about me. Even now. I know he does!_

 

* * *

 

 

**Start a Fire**

Izumi crept up behind Mizutani, steady and quiet, and dug his fingers into the other boy’s ribs. It was probably a rougher tickling than he had bargained for, with Izumi impatiently heaving him into the dugout bench. He couldn’t help it. It was so, so frustrating. He felt played and miserable, thinking of how Bijou-Sayama had read him apart, striking him with ease. “You’re relaxed now, right?”

Mizutani shook and picked himself up, answering and affirming and ready. Izumi didn’t think the other boy had noticed the ire beneath his intensity. He felt almost badly. Almost. He stomped to the grating and gripped the uppermost bar; his view of the field was clear and tinted red. The sky above boiled overhead, as hot as his mood. A glance to the cheering section confirmed what he already knew- Hamada was watching the game, not seeking his gaze or tracking his movements.

In his irritation, he wasn’t sure if he was glad for that or not.  


* * *

 

 **Not** **Impossible**

When Mihashi goes to bat, and he goes to bunt, Abe nearly loses his mind. All he can see is the enemy pitcher on the mound, winding up, releasing, and sending the ball straight into Mihashi’s clenched fingers.

Breaking. Them. All.

He tries to breathe, but it’s awful all the way through, and he’s almost relieved when Mihashi takes first base. But as Mihashi picks himself up from the ground, he glances back at Abe, and his eyes are wide and almost sad. Nervous.

And Abe has no idea what to make of that, or of the clenched brush of dismay in his chest.  
  


* * *

 

 

**Not Improbable**

As though to make up for some slight, some sin, that he cannot name, Abe checks in with Mihashi as soon as they return to the dugout. He looks all right, maybe a bit flushed, but not overly so. “Your pitch count is up. Are you feeling okay?”

“I- I really want to win today, so I’m okay!” Mihashi stumbles, pulling his glove to his chest.

“If we win,” Abe offers, wanted to pull the glove down, and off, so he could test the weight and breadth of his catcher’s fingers, count the callouses that lived there, more.  “We’ll be in the top eight.”

Mihashi flushes with what Abe knows must be happiness, though his smile is typically nervous. The pitcher shudders and giggles and _he is so cute_.

“You should watch out for injuries,” he said, turning the water cooler spigot carefully. “Don’t make me repeat that you shouldn’t crowd the plate so much.”

_It makes me so worried for you. Fingers and all._

 

* * *

 

**Message in a Bottle**

Tajima taps the back of Hanai’s skull with his bat and, emboldened, addresses him in a strong tone. He wants to load as much as possible into it. Something strong.

“Hanai.”

He turned, eyeing him with a measure of surprise, maybe suspicion.

“Pull it. Show them your power.”

Tajima walks out before he has too long to examine the surprised- delighted?- expression that overtook his teammate’s face. He wanted it, but he doesn’t want to remember. He made it happen, but he doesn’t want it burned into the back of his mind. But it is. More than batting, more than the field, more than this game, Tajima feels driven by the expressions that thunder across Hanai’s stupid face.

He wanted to load as much as possible into his words, and he’s not sure if he succeeded. Or, if he did, what exactly it is that he’s succeeded at.  


* * *

 

**First, Second, Third**

 “Good job!” the shout comes from home plate and slams straight into Mihashi’s stomach. It zips from there up into his chest and he smiles without thinking, without worrying. His face feels hot again. It always happens like this. Abe’s praise.

It means so much. It wouldn’t matter if there were no one in the stands to cheer, or the opposite- _thousands_ of fans to cheer- the few words of praise he gets from Abe soar above the rest. His heart opens, gets stronger for a moment; Mihashi forgets that he is useless, and hopeless, and without value. That the mound could be taken from him. That there is a crushing, unforgiving world out there, beyond the safety of his routine. Abe’s voice, and its timbre. It only takes a few words.

Mihashi could take on the whole world, throw ten thousand pitches. As long as Abe is catching them. For that moment, he feels that if he truly begins to fall, _Abe would catch him._

* * *

 

 

**Trust**

_If you give me the sign, I’ll throw whatever you want me to._

 

* * *

 

 

**The End of the Beginning**

“Mihashi-!”

He needed to be beside Mihashi _immediately_. Jogging up to his pitcher, he can see the nerves plain and fretful across Mihashi’s cheeks and eyes, and in the nervous pull of his eyes. And he’s got to be so tired, but he stands up tall before catching the harrowed look Abe knows is cutting across his face.

The other boy looks down, looks away, and brings his fist in front of his stomach; the most plaintive and wracked of gestures so far. It could be, having given up all of these runs to the opponents, that Mihashi—finally—finally--

“Mihashi, can you still trust my game and pitch-calling?” he managed, hoping to catch Mihashi’s eyes again. He couldn’t remember the last time, or the first time, _any time_ , that he had been so open with a feeling of misgiving. Of hesitance. Fear. He was preparing for rejection somehow, though the idea of Mihashi being cold to him seemed as absurd as the sun falling out of the sky.

But.

If Mihashi _were_ cold to him. If he had lost that trust, what would we do? It made his knees weak.

“I can still pitch!” he heard through his own, sudden fear. Mihashi looked as though he were begging, his eyebrows pinched and his eyes wet with worry. “I can!”

He felt his heart stutter through a complicated routine of relief; he could be so pessimistic sometimes, but this was the same Mihashi as always. The boy who would never give up the mound without a fight. Who trusted him. _What am I thinking? Why am I dumping my worries on Mihashi? Pull yourself together!_

_He’s my pitcher. He wants to pitch._

_He- He definitely trusts me._

_I can still bring more out of him_.

He watched Mihashi scuff his nervous tears from his sweet brown eyes; there was still a small guilt there, that he wished he knew how to mend. He had to lift Mihashi up, do what was best for the pitcher and for the team. They could _definitely_ recover, he just had to _focus._

“All right! Give me your best pitch!”

Mihashi finally returned his eye contact, buoying Abe’s confidence, and returned, “Yes!”

And for now, that was enough.


End file.
